Unknown
by RoswellianMisha
Summary: Saint Paul's Hospital medical staff has just received the biggest mystery of their lives. They'll have to find out what he is before they can know what's wrong with him. And between this man's friends and foes, time is running out. CC/Max centered.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Unknown  
**Author:** RoswellianMisha  
**Disclaimer:** I wish they were mine, but really, they're not. But to make it official: The characters of "Roswell" belong to Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, WB, and UPN. They are not mine and no infringement is intended.  
**Category:** CC / Max centered – Post Graduation  
**Rating:** YTEEN, for very occasional language

**Summary:**  
They don't know who he is when he's first admitted. And in the course of finding out what's wrong with him, they'll stumble with the fact that they also don't know _what _he is either. Saint Paul's Hospital medical staff has just received the biggest mystery of their lives, but what's really worrying them is that, between this man's friends and foes, time is running out for their unknown patient.

Saint Paul's Hospital is about to get chaotic.

**Author's Note: **This story happened thanks to watching too much _House M.D._ and reading _Kal-El's Journal_ by **clairecheaux**, specifically the _Resurrection part 2_ featurette. If you ever want to read very dark, very angsty Superman fanfiction, that one is calling to you ;) Both links can be found on my profile. All medical details are fictional. **Unknown** wouldn't have happened without the extraordinary help of my betas, **KathyW, Michelle in Yonkers** and **thetvgeneral**, and the attentive eye of both **jainga** and **ken_r**, my continuity betas, so eternal thanks go to the five of them!

* * *

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**Unknown**

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**  
Prologue**

...  
**  
**

It all had happened so fast.

It had started like any other day, really. In fact, it had pretty much been like any other day for the most part, and Dr. Susan Lake had spent almost the entire last hour happily humming to herself as she had been stuck with paperwork. There had been no doubt in her mind that it was going to be a long night, even if things had been quiet, and comfortable, and all around normal. That's why it was so inconceivable to be standing right now at the entrance of the ER, the temperature barely reaching 25ºF, as snow lightly fell on the street.

She was tense. Every single doctor and nurse at the ready, light conversation going around in scarce whispers here and there, all of them waiting for the ambulances to come.

One minute she was reviewing the last charts of the day, the next all available doctors were being paged. Two minutes later she had understood why: A train had derailed. Some had said terrorism, some had said human error, but most likely, it had been related to the severe storm they had had just the night before. It hadn't helped matters that it had been snowing for the past three days straight either. Something on the rails had given up and the train had just plummeted to the earth. At rush hour, chances were hospitals were going to come short.

And Saint Paul's Hospital was the first in the line, so all critical patients were coming this way. All that they could manage, at least.

She could hear the sirens in the distance now. Somewhere, a radio or a TV was blaring with the news of the disaster. She cursed under her breath that it had to be tonight, for no other reason than the very terrible fact that at least 1/4 of the staff was sick with the flu at home. How many people were they going to be able to help? How many children had been on that train?

Susan had never been very fond of the ER, but here she was. All hands were needed, and she was more than ready to lend hers. Hadn't she become a doctor to help whenever she could? There was too much suffering in the world, and she had wanted to ease it just a bit. And children were the most cheated in that regard: They hadn't experienced life just yet.

Despite the fact that she had graduated second in her class, and her residency had been over three years ago, Susan had never found herself in a situation like this. Loosely controlled chaos was about to take up residence in the ER in just about two minutes, and she idly thought that she would kill for a cigarette.

She tried to think about other things. She was quitting the horrible vice, for crying out loud. She tried to focus, the reports from the crash site vague at best. She didn't think there were many kids in the train at this hour, and that somehow eased her fears. Children were her life, and she was regarded as one damned good pediatrician as well. The irony being that she had no children of her own, and frankly, she wasn't sure she wanted to be a mom either. Maybe she would just suck at it.

A screeching sound took her out of her thoughts about motherhood and her nicotine addiction. Ambulances were still on their way, the snow covered streets becoming a treacherous road, the rush hour traffic not helping any. The source of the sound was standing at her left, some 15 feet away; a taxi that had seen better days -way better days- had stopped, the driver hurriedly opening the door a second after.

"I need help!" the man yelled as he started to round the front part of his car, his moves admirably agile for someone who couldn't be more than 5'4", and was overweight by more than 50 pounds. Gray sweater, black pants and black gloves, the man's face was a total contrast to his monochromatic outfit as it flushed with worry, half skidding, half running to the other side of the car.

"Sir, you'll have to go to—" Dr. Alec Holt started to say as the man was reaching the passenger door. Susan understood Holt's words: They were waiting for critical patients, and every single bed was needed.

"Listen," the taxi driver said in a no-nonsense voice, "this guy practically collapsed in front of my car. I don't know what the hell is wrong with him, I don't know who the hell he is, but I'll be damned if I had left him in the snow to die a cold death. I had to re-route three times since the stupid snow hasn't been cleared, and the damned train derailment has paralyzed the goddamn city for the past twenty minutes. I don't think he can wait for the next hospital in the way, so either you take him in, or I'll just camp here until he dies inside my car."

He opened the door. Now the entire staff that was waiting outside was holding their collective breaths. Susan didn't know what to expect, really, but the taxi driver had made a pretty convincing act. Even if Holt was only a couple of years older than her, he looked like a kid that had been reprimanded by the principal about a very serious deed.

Holt almost imperceptibly snapped out of it, and with a move of his head, the nurses rushed with the stretcher as he came to aid the taxi driver. The first ambulance turned the corner, the reds and blues illuminating the snow on the sidewalks, the sound of the siren taking over her thoughts. Her and everyone's attention was diverted from the drama going on in the taxi to the one that was about to unfold in a couple of seconds.

Yet Susan still caught a glimpse of the young man that Dr. Alec Holt helped to get out of the passenger seat just as the ambulance parked. Of the short, dark hair, the slender -and most likely tall- figure, and the well-defined muscles of his naked chest. Gray, dirty pants and tennis shoes were all that protected him against the bitter cold. She could tell he was barely conscious, and just as she wondered why the taxi driver wouldn't have given him something to cover him up, she heard Holt exclaimed, "Damn! He's burning up!"

The ambulance doors opened up and the first victim came out, a little girl not older than 6, and all thoughts about the mysterious dark-haired man were forgotten. In fact, she wouldn't think of him again for the next two hours. A second encounter would happen then that was bound to ensure she would never forget him again.

It was going to be a long night indeed.


	2. Unnoticed

**Chapter 1  
Unnoticed**

* * *

The world had become a hazy place. Bright lights and loud sounds assaulted his senses a moment, just for all to get blurred and muted the next.

He was lying on something hard, but not so hard that it was bare metal. And he was moving, he thought, as lights would dash in and out over him. People were around him, that much he knew, but everything else was a blank right now. He was scared, but not overly so. He was too tired to care, really, but he couldn't give in to blessed oblivion for a reason that escaped him just about now.

He had to stay awake, and so he would.

"—you are?"

Sounds were sharpening again. A man's voice, worried, urgent, young. Others were talking, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He heard things as if he were underwater, but nevertheless he tried to focus on the man's voice.

"Sir? Sir, what's your name?"

A question. He had to answer questions. He tried to tell the man his name, but found his mouth too dry. He was dimly aware that he was also too warm. He tried to move his hands to take off his shirt, not really remembering he had already taken it off almost half an hour ago. Other hands grabbed his, not letting him move, and that was the first time that he really started to be afraid. Something wasn't right.

"Do you know your name?"

He tried to wet his lips for all the good that did.

"M—Max—"

He took a breath so he could tell him his last name, just to hear the man's voice cursing and talking to others. Max forgot the question before the voice could ask him again. Sounds were wavering out once more, and he thought he had heard someone asking if he knew where he was, but by this point, he was forgetting that he had to stay awake as well.

Darkness enveloped him, and he gladly went with it.

"Dr. Holt! He's not worth it right now!" Howard's voice cut through Holt's train of thought as sharp as a knife through butter. "He's a drug addict that is wasting his life on his free time. You've got six more people coming, honest people, and already a full ER with patients who really need your help. He's already stable!"

Holt half glared at the male short nurse beside him, while a woman was yelling for her daughter at the other side of the very full ER. The whole situation felt surreal for a second to him. It was loud, it was messy, and most certainly ugly, and he knew that it was not stopping any time soon. Time had seemed to stretch, but not even ten minutes had passed since the first ambulance had come; at least eight more had arrived in as many minutes, and the limits of the staff had already begun to show. Such was life in a hospital, and he was more than well-trained to deal with it.

Which was why he was glaring at sweaty, anxious Howard. His instinct —more than his training— was telling him that there was more to the young man lying in front of him than just a junkie who had gotten lucky by passing out in front of a taxi driver that actually cared.

The needle marks on his arms were there, sure, but they were too recent. All of them. An addict would have old scars to go with the new ones. He was too clean, and his body too well defined to be the typical street case. Maybe he was a rich guy who got wasted, he reasoned, but wasted on what? There was no alcohol breath. Then, there was the bruising around his chest and his left shoulder, which was also not old. Had he fallen while searching for shelter from the storm the previous days? Not to mention the fever that would have melted the snow outside had it been given the chance.

The man –Max, he had barely whispered- had tried to fight them a little as they were attaching the electrodes from the heart monitor to his chest, and Howard had held his hands so he wouldn't hurt himself or interfere. Holt would have thought Max was too wiped out to offer any resistance, but he had seen that it had taken the nurse a bit of strength to control their patient. Max had calmed down fairly fast, the monitor catching Alec Holt's attention.

His heartbeat was slightly erratic and not surprisingly elevated due to the fever, which wasn't as high now as Holt had first thought when he had placed his new patient on the stretcher, but 103 was nothing to sneeze at. His pupils were dilated. His blood pressure seemed to be undecided as to how high it wanted to stay, dancing between numbers which made absolutely no sense to the brown eye doctor. Max had lost the little consciousness he had had just as the woman had started to scream her lungs out for her missing daughter, so now Dr. Holt had a name but not a last name to go with his patient.

He took a vial of blood, and efficiently ordered a dose of metropolol to lower the heart rate and an antipyretic to keep the fever down as Howard and another nurse cut through the gray dirty pants and replaced them with a hospital gown. There were other things that Holt would have had dealt right there and then if Howard hadn't been right about one thing: Six more people were making their way through the doors, and before fifteen minutes, enough victims from the train derailment would come to effectively make management close the hospital to any more patients. They were at their limit, and painfully short staffed.

Giving the sample to Howard with instructions to search for drug abuse, Holt regarded Max. He was stable for now, and likely to remain so for the time being, his lab tests probably not going to return in hours as other patients would take priority, and so good doctor Alec Holt turned around to see who else he could help.

In the overflowing ER, Max was left beside a wall, a monitor keeping rhythm with his heartbeat, an IV steadily dripping vital fluids into his veins. Holt gave him one last glance. If anything changed, he would be the first to notice.

He was wrong.

* * *

Sirens.

It was the first sound Max could make out from all the noise that had slowly filtered into his consciousness. He felt heavy, and tired. Tired enough that it took a conscious effort to open his eyes. More sounds were making sense now, as he slowly made out the forms above him.

A ceiling. People were around, a lot of them. Crying, some shouting somewhere. More sirens in the distance, someone running past beside him. A steady beeping sound.

His eyes slowly turned to his right, to where all the people was coming and going. It was all a kaleidoscope of colors and forms, sounds coming and going randomly again. Max closed his eyes, trying to make the world stop spinning.

"Get me the damn OR! And where the hell is Williams?!"

More people running past him. More sounds of shouting and sirens. It actually was easier to identify sounds as long as he kept his eyes closed. _Where_ was he? His eyes snapped open at one single thought: Michael.

He was supposed to meet Michael. He was supposed to keep running. He was supposed to stay awake. He was supposed to—

The beeping sound wasn't so steady anymore, and Max finally turned to his left to find the source of it. A heart monitor. _His_ heart monitor.

A sense of _déjà vu_ invaded him for a second, as he recalled a very similar situation five years earlier when he had woken up in a hospital bed after he had crashed his car in order to avoid a wild horse.

_They don't know yet,_ his mind barely concluded as he closed his eyes again, the world not quite still under his eyes yet, dizziness overtaking him for a few seconds. He had to get out of there.

Minutes went by as Max fought unconsciousness trying to snatch him again. He was so tired, and so thirsty. He negotiated with his own mind the order of things he had to do to get out of the hospital, a feat that was getting harder and harder as he kept forgetting what the proper order of doing things was. He had to get up and detach the electrodes and the IV and… or was it… the other way around…? Detach and then… Was he forgetting… something? He had to… do… to first do… do…

The beeping was steady once again.

"Get Jennings on the line NOW!"

The shout snatched Max out of the comfortable darkness he was settling in as whoever was yelling kept doing so down the hall.

He had to get out. Right.

He wasn't sure exactly how, though. As he started to move, the bite of the needle with the IV gave him pause. He had to get rid of it first, and the monitor as well. Right. It took him an eternity to reach his left arm with his right hand, and an entire lifetime to concentrate enough to carefully get the IV out while healing the tiny incision.

He took a minute to collect his thoughts again. The monitor kept beeping, reminding him of what his next task was. He looked at it until the image stopped wavering, focusing his eyes on the off button, pushing it with his mind. The beeping stopped, but his heart didn't. Relieved, he closed his eyes to gather his strength.

Next thing he knew, he was standing. He didn't remember detaching the electrodes, or anything else for that matter, and he frowned at his missing time. His head hurt enough without his confusing thoughts, and so he closed his eyes again in an attempt to calm himself and think clearly how to get to the far doors of the very crowded hospital.

The smell made him nauseous. A combination of disinfectant and medicine, and sweat and blood, and urine and things he just couldn't place. In other words, all the smells of life, pain and the smells that stood for death. The noise and the almost chaotic movement made him uneasy, but he was vaguely aware that this exact chaos was his passport out of there.

_No one knows yet_, he repeated, bracing himself for his first step towards freedom. He never let go of the stretcher at his left, but four steps later he had to stop and take deep breaths. He was sweating, but he dimly thought that four steps weren't enough to make him sweat. His heart was beating fast, and taking deep breaths wasn't helping any.

Someone wearing a white lab coat shouted to someone else across the hall. Max winced. He preferred it when the sounds were nothing more than an indistinguishable murmur. His stomach protested the smells once again, and Max had to turn to face the stretcher and brace it with both hands, eyes shut tight.

He could do this. He _would_ do this. He just needed a minute for things to settle down, and the floor to stop moving again.

Once he opened his eyes a couple of minutes later, he realized he hadn't been gripping his own stretcher. A little girl's half open eyes met his own. She was really pale, and cuts and bruises sprinkled her arms and her angelic face. She was eerily quiet. The IV was there, the heart monitor was there, but where was the doctor? Surely, they wouldn't leave a child untended?

He turned around and saw the sea of people behind him. The sounds came in full force now that he was really paying attention, nurses and doctors talking rapidly amongst each other, frenetic parents and relatives searching or comforting love ones. The chaos that was going to be his freedom was probably costing the girl her life.

He had been left aside, and he was doing reasonably okay, Max thought as he turned to look at the sleeping child. They were obviously busy and had thought that she was equally okay. Any minute they would check on her and... and...

He felt her life slipping away.

A bead of sweat ran from his forehead to his cheek, and he absently wiped it out. His heart was still beating too fast, and his mind was having trouble concentrating, but somehow, even without touching her, Max knew her life was slipping away.

He turned once more, this time in search of a doctor, a nurse, _someone_ who would be able to help her. He tried to call the first person with a hospital lab coat that he could see, and found his throat too dry. He was _so_ thirsty. His eyes went again to the door, the green neon word EXIT so clearly defined even to his slightly blurry vision.

He tore his eyes from the sign and went back to his original search: Help. A few feet from where he was, a nurse and a doctor sped up from a door with a stretcher in between, a patient being taken somewhere else. They passed him without a second glance, but Max's eyes stayed on the door. A room. An idea already springing to life in his mind.

Max returned his attention to the little girl, her eyes creepily vacant, her skin looking paler if that were possible. He could heal her just a little bit, just enough to give time for whomever was watching her to come back and check on her status. He could buy her that time.

He could.  
_  
Just enough time,_ he repeated to himself as he placed his right hand on her chest, while he gripped the stretcher with his left. The smells were still making him nauseous, and his legs didn't feel all that firm either.

It took him longer than ever before to make the connection. Even though he was expecting them, the flashes from the girl's life took him by surprise, making him almost slip over the stretcher, his vision getting clouded, his heartbeat loud in his ears as if he were running.

He should be running. Michael had told him so.

The thought went unnoticed as he finally _felt_ what was wrong with the girl, his breath catching up with his lungs. Something had broken inside her... or more like torn inside her. Or both? His concentration lost focus for a second as someone was screaming at the top of her lungs. He shut his eyes to return to the damage and heal it. He had to stop whatever it was and then—

The screaming persisted as he felt his knees buckling up, the connection lost as he snapped his eyes open and grabbed the stretcher with both hands, losing his touch on her. He had healed the worst damage, but by doing so had lost the little strength he had gathered when he had first stopped to rest after taking his first steps.

Panting, his eyes went to the room he had seen before, barely five feet from the girl's stretcher. He couldn't make it to the exit, not yet, but he could make it to the room and rest for a couple of minutes. _Then_ he would reach the EXIT sign and he would be free. Or at least, free of discovery.

Nodding to himself, he stood straight again, checking the girl as he did so. She looked better, though not overly so. Someone had to check on her soon, because he had no more energy to give. He would be running soon, he vaguely thought, and that made him set his mind on his next goal: Reaching the door to that room.

Determination settled in his features. A strange buzzing in his ears had joined his headache, and for this he was thankful since he didn't have to keep hearing people shouting and screaming. Though he could see the door to the room clearly, everything at the edge of his vision was blurry, all definition gone, colors merging into one another, making him feel as if he were looking through a tunnel.

His first step was tentative. His second steady. But by the time he was halfway through it, he had to stop and lean on the wall for support. He needed to rest, and for that he needed the room and the solace it would bring him. He would hide until he could keep going, so sure was he that in the chaos that was Saint Paul's Hospital's ER no one would miss him from his stretcher, much less go looking for him.

It took him six more minutes to reach the inside of the room, though he would have sworn it had been thrice that number, and as he slowly slid down the wall, not really caring what was in that room to begin with, he kept thinking that all he needed was to catch his breath.

Just... to catch... his breath...

Despite what he thought about how unnoticeable he had been, before he had crossed the threshold to the room at least two people had very much noticed him all right.

One was concerned about the girl. One was intrigued with Max himself. And both would remember this exact moment as the one that changed everything they had thought about life on Earth.


	3. Healing

**Chapter 2  
Healing  
**

* * *

Dr. Jay McConnell's eyes narrowed as he took in the ER situation. He had spent the last two hours working at the crash site, hearing the news over the radio as he was heading home. He knew, beyond a doubt, that his hospital was understaffed, but also knew that he could do more helping victims who were being rescued than navigating the chaos that the ER was about to become.

He had hitched a ride to Saint Paul's on the last ambulance that was heading this way. The most critical patients had been dispatched first, but as time had passed and the staff had had time to move patients around, some beds had opened. Saint Paul was the closest hospital, but the next two in line were already at their max capacity.

As he had stepped down from the ambulance, his patient had started to go into cardiac arrest. He had entered through those doors practically riding the stretcher, getting down once the barely free nurses had been able to help him stabilize him.

Now he was re-evaluating the situation, as not so critical patients were changing status to very critical patients. As head of the neurological department, he was more than trained to make such assertions, and with a clinical, professional eye, he started to re-arrange priorities among the victims.

Just as he was evaluating a man who was becoming short of breath, his eyes caught sight of Dr. Lake. He knew the pretty young doctor didn't like the ER, especially when it came to children, but there she was, brown eyes concentrating on the young woman she had in front of her. He liked her. He had been pleasantly impressed when she had made her rounds in neurology as a resident. She was sweet with kids, but knew how to stand her ground when she thought she was right.

He wished more doctors were like her. Knowledgeable, confident of their skill, and with enough curiosity left to still try to do something new every day.

McConnell took his stethoscope out and listened intently to the man. From the corner of his eye, he saw Susan doing the same with the woman, except Susan's eyes had fixed for a second on something else, her eyebrows slightly frowning with worry. He followed her gaze as he asked the patient if he had any history of asthma.

She was looking at a young man, not older than 25, standing in front of a stretcher at the other end of the ER. Did she know him? Did she think he was dangerous in some way? The stranger was lacking the bruises, cuts and burns that were characterizing the victims from the train derailment, but his decidedly sick complexion confirmed that the man was in need of medical attention.

He just would have to wait for his turn, Jay thought, his patient's breathing starting to get worse. He returned his attention to the medical problem in front of him, instructing the nurses to get the man a nebulizer right now.

Dr. Lake's attention hadn't left the dark haired man, though. McConnell knew that for a fact as he turned his eyes to her again, and this time she was really staring at the guy, her patient practically forgotten. He turned to see why, and his heart almost skipped a beat as he saw the stranger bending over another stretcher, one Jay had hardly paid attention to before.

He racked his brain to remember who he had seen there, and it made perfect sense that a kid was on that bed, which would explain Susan's intensive protectiveness.

He thought the man was passing out. He had seemed to be well enough to stand, but obviously not well enough to walk. She and he moved at the same time towards that direction, just to find themselves stuck with their respective patients as both started to go into shock.

He wouldn't pay more attention to anything else outside stabilizing the 30 something man in his hands for the next few minutes. It was bad enough the guy had to be the victim of a train crash, he didn't need a negligent doctor as well.

By the time he looked up, he saw that Susan's stranger was making progress toward one of the small ER rooms, where cuts, scratches and minor injuries were treated on a daily basis. Probably someone had been treated there tonight as space had become a necessity, but from his vantage point, McConnell could see the room was now vacated.

What was he looking for? Drugs? Even from this distance, McConnell could tell the man was running a fever. It could definitely be a withdrawal symptom. The man could be delirious, yet he was determined to get into that room, that much was plain.

Dr. Lake was following the man's progress while trying to establish if the woman under her care was stabilizing or not, but her desire to go running to the little kid on the stretcher was more than obvious to Jay.

Deciding his patient was in good hands with the nurses, at least for the minute it would take him to check on things, Dr. McConnell took a direct course towards the man in question. He had vanished into the smaller room a couple of minutes before, but Jay still checked on the girl who had been pronounced stable enough to wait her turn.

She was still stable, and nothing suspicious was jumping at his sight. She wasn't looking so good though, and he made a point to call Susan after checking on the man, if she wasn't there by the time he had finished.

Entering the small room, he was briefly disconcerted at not finding anyone either lying down on the examination table or searching for drugs on the cabinets. It only took him a second to find that the man had slid down the wall at his left, passing out and falling on his side. Jay squatted in front him, intending on taking his pulse on his neck.

"Holly shit! You're burning up!" McConnell swore out loud, having seldom found such high temperatures among his patients. He sat the man straight against the wall, as he took his pulse: Fast and erratic. A thin veil of sweat was already covering his face, chest and back.

"I need some help here!" he yelled to no one and everyone, as he opened the man's eyelids. His pupils were dilated, and his breathing was becoming short and rapid, trying to compensate for the lack of volume.

Dr. Holt's dark blond hair appeared a second later through the open door. He immediately positioned himself beside McConnell, both of them seizing an arm and aiming for the vacant examination table.

"He said his name was Max," Holt started to explain. "A taxi driver found him and brought him at the same time the first ambulance was coming. We suspected drug abuse. He was stable a couple of hours ago."

"He's sure as hell not stable right now," McConnell said disapprovingly as they laid the man on the table. "Go get a crash cart. And find a goddamned cooling blanket. We need to get his temperature down now!"

They were going to need a whole lot more than just that.

* * *

Sounds were muffled again, and his vision was not much better when it came to sharpness. Frenetic voices and frenetic movement was about all Max could make out.

God, he felt so warm, and so tired, and so thirsty. He tried to open his eyes and barely managed a slit. He had the feeling that whatever was happening around him had to do with himself, and the thought made him uneasy.

He tried to think straight, starting by trying to figure out where he was. Seconds went by without an answer, but that didn't stop him. He knew where he _wasn't_, for starters. He wasn't running through dark, wet, cold streets. He wasn't inside a dark, dry, musky car. And he wasn't in a bright lit room... except, he _was_.

All his senses became razor sharp as adrenaline fueled his body. He snapped his eyes open and took a deep breath as if he were coming from underwater. Someone at his left was holding an oxygen mask over his face, and he realized that almost at the same time as he realized the beeping had come back, and it was beeping pretty fast too.

A hand stopped him from getting up.

"Easy, Max. It's okay."

No, it wasn't. This voice wasn't the same as the one that had talked to him earlier. This man had an older, stronger voice. A voice used to command and being respected. It was soothing as well, caring, but all Max could think was that they had –or were about to- discover him. He had to get out of there.

"Temperature keeps rising," another male voice said beside him, at his right. This time, it was the same younger voice as before, though Max couldn't really make out specific features from either man.

He tried to focus. First on the man who was holding him down, with not much luck, so he turned his eyes to the other man in the room. All sounds became muted as his eyes fixed on the younger man's hands. A needle was being prepared to go into his veins. In that moment, Max didn't care –didn't _think_- about anything as all he knew was that he couldn't allow that needle into himself.

Maybe he wasn't at the hospital anymore. Maybe they had caught him again. He had been supposed to keep running.

The needle never made it into his arm. He was pushing with all he had, all the strength his mind could muster, to keep them away from him.

"I can't hold— I can't—" the older man said as he kept struggling against Max's own mental strength, clearly not knowing what was going on. He finally took his hand off Max's chest and the oxygen mask from his face, allowing Max to sit up.

The room swayed as he did so, his eyes surveying his surroundings, in search of a way out.

"You're going to hurt yourself!" It was the young man's voice, and Max's attention returned to the needle. He was vaguely aware that he was panting, but as his eyes kept fixed on that hand, he started to detach whatever sensors he could blindly find.

"Dr. Holt, take that needle out of his sight," stern and clear came the older man's voice, but Max didn't turn to look at him. Slowly, the needle found its way to a table beside the wall. All the time the beeping was going too fast, Max's own hand having stopped the detaching process to steady himself. God, he would kill for a glass of water right now.

"Son," the man at his left kept saying, "it's okay. You're at Saint Paul's Hospital. You're running a very high fever. We're trying to help you."

Was the man lying? It didn't matter. Wherever he was, he was _not_ safe. Max closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. What was he supposed to do?

"You need to lie down, and let us help you," the voice continued, slowly approaching him. Max shook his head. He just needed to rest. He just needed to go to the EXIT sign, and get out of there, and then he would indeed lie down and rest.

All he needed was rest.

He tried to tell him, but he couldn't find his own voice. He needed to get out of here now because his strength was wavering at best, and he couldn't keep both men at arms length for much longer.

He started to move his legs so he could get down from the table, remembering he had to get rid of the IV first. The buzzing inside his head was back in full force, and even the beeping sound was hard to make out.

He had to finish detaching the electrodes, right. Things felt in slow motion, as if he were underwater with a very heavy suit on. Though he knew what he had to do, he remained frozen in place, his arms carrying all his weight. If the two men were talking, he didn't hear them. What he _did_ hear though—

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO THAT GIRL?!"

—was the ear shattering shout of a woman coming from the door he was so desperately trying to reach. His arms gave out, and Max felt himself falling on his back, just to feel a strong arm interrupting his fall.

Max was laid down and the oxygen mask was back in place as well. He tried to shake it off, to sit again, but the little fight he put up was met with definite authority, as the same hand that had held him down before encountered no resistance.

"What did you do to her?!"

The woman was coming towards him, and the man who was holding him down had to let him go so he could prevent the woman from reaching him, the oxygen mask left aside.

"What did you do?!" she kept asking him, with the same passion that reminded him of Maria. The older man was trying to take her out, but as their eyes locked, Max knew he had to give her an answer.

"I—I— healed— her."

* * *

No sooner had Dr. Holt been able to reach Max, he had taken the needle from the table and had searched for the IV. He knew better than to go for the arm again, effectively entering his patient's peripheral vision –as Max was looking at Dr. Lake and no longer at him- and freaking him out once again. It wasn't the first time that Alec had seen patients who were terrified of hospitals, doctors or needles to the point Max had shown, but it had been the first time he had been unable to reach someone because invisible hands had held him off.

What the _hell_ was happening here?

It was a small victory to see that the light sedative he had just injected into the clear fluid was doing the job it was supposed to do. The world was still working properly, even around whatever strange circumstances were surrounding the now unconscious man lying in front of him. He took another oxygen mask, putting it on Max's face, expertly attaching it to his head.

"Calm down, Dr. Lake," Dr. McConnell was still trying to restrain the pretty pediatrician from reaching Max. The fact that all three of them had clearly heard the almost whispered reassurance from their mystery patient that he had healed "her", whoever "her" was, did nothing to stop the frenetic movements of both doctors: one stopping, the other struggling.

"He did something to that child, and it had nothing to do with healing her!" Dr. Lake kept repeating. "What is he wearing on his hands? What did he put on her?"

Dr. McConnell turned to look at Holt, searching the man's face for an answer.

"He has nothing on his hands," Alec told them both as he was re-attaching the few electrodes that Max had detached, turning Max's palms up so Dr. Lake could see for herself.

"That girl has a silver handprint on her chest. I _need_ to know what the hell it is, because we have no clue. She's on her way to the OR as we speak, so we don't have much time."

Not that Max was awake to answer her, Alec thought as he watched the monitors, the temperature not giving an inch. "He must have worn gloves," Alec absently said as he moved for the crash cart in search of something to help bring down the dangerous fever. The funny thing was Max had been wearing nothing more than the hospital gown when he had left him two hours ago.

"She didn't have any prints when I checked on her," Dr. McConnell said as he finally let her go, both of them approaching the unconscious man.

"I'm _not_ imagining that, and _you_ saw him bending over that stretcher out there. He did _something_."

_That_ Alec was more than willing to believe, but his doctor's mind had taken over, any unexplainable phenomena left for a moment when his patient was stable. He had left him beside the wall before, he was not going to do that again.

"Well, whatever he did, he's not doing it right now. You'll have to wait for him to wake up," McConnell said. Dr. Lake was about to protest, Alec knew without needing to look at her. His attention was pinned on seeing if the drugs he had just administered would do the trick of slowing the heartbeat and lowering the fever. "I'm telling you, Susan," McConnell continued, "he didn't do anything to her. She was as stable as one could reasonably hope when I checked her."

Silence. Then, "Page me the minute he opens his eyes," Dr. Lake coldly said as she checked for herself that Max's right hand was bare and spotless. She stalked away without another word, probably to check outside if she could find what the mystery silver paint was.

"Where the hell is that cooling blanket?" Alec said out loud as he saw his efforts were met with indifference from the monitors. Nothing was changing with his patient's condition.

"Forget the blanket, we need to get him an ice bath."

Now that they were alone, they silently asked each other for an explanation to the invisible force that had briefly kept them away from Max. Alec met Jay's eyes, and both knew that whatever had happened just before Dr. Lake had entered had been real. They had both experienced it. And as one, they both turned to look at Max.

"I'll get a gurney," McConnell said, "You keep an eye on those vitals."

* * *

The lab results were nowhere to be found, especially since Max "Doe" had been labeled as low priority when he had been admitted in the first place. Twenty-three patients had been labeled first priority, and at least another 12 had been waiting after those twenty-three. The hospital had over-passed its limit an hour ago, McConnell knew, and it only made him feel more helpless in this situation.

Something very strange was going on here, and the invisible force that had thrown him away was only part of it.

Usually, male nurses would do the ice bathing with a doctor nearby in case any complication would rise. One was now helping him, since nurses where in short supply, but Dr. McConnell wanted to do this bath himself for one specific reason: He wanted to examine Max, and if that temperature kept rising he might not get another chance of doing that while Max was still alive.

Max's fever had reached the 105.2 ºF, and they still had no idea what was causing it. Dr. Holt had taken one more blood vial, collected a urine sample, and headed to the lab to do the tests himself. Common drugs were not working on lowering his fever.

The nurse was the quiet type, which suited McConnell just fine. He had a lot to think about.

There were the needle scars, the primary reason why Max had been dismissed as a drug addict. The dilated pupils, rapid heartbeat and fever had all fit the diagnosis. All they needed now was his blood to confirm it.

And maybe, just _maybe_, he would indulge himself into thinking that whatever drug was running through Max's system, was also running through his. That was a nice, simple explanation as to what had caused his momentary paralysis –or whatever had kept him from reaching Max— while first attending to this man.

McConnell didn't like nice and simple.

With clinical eyes he observed that Max's wrists were now sporting slight cuts and bruises. Restraint bruises. As McConnell dipped his hand into the icy water to better position Max's unconscious body, he paid more attention to the bruising on his left shoulder. It couldn't be more than three or four days old, and chances were that the bruises on his chest were related as well to the event that had caused them. Wrists, chest, and left shoulder. It was more than likely that they were all related, and maybe one of them was hiding the cause of this fever.

They took him out and placed him on a table ready with towels. The nurse started drying him as Jay took his temperature: 104.1 ºF. He let go a tentative sigh. At least it was coming down. His heartbeat was still accelerated, but his blood pressure was closer to the numbers it should be.

His eyes locked on Max's torso. There were small scars that caught his attention, prompting him to bend down to look at them better. They were too strategically placed, and too clinically done to be any accident. It looked as if someone had been doing biopsies not too long ago.

_Where were you before?_ McConnell thought as he kept examining the recent scars. Depending on what the lab tests would show, McConnell could very well envision himself doing those same biopsies. In the twenty years he had in the field, he had done more than his share of those.

Maybe whatever condition Max had wasn't new, and someone else had been trying to figure it out. He had been found in the streets, collapsed in front of a taxi driver. Maybe Max had escaped from one of the other hospitals. A couple of calls would confirm that.

But as he helped the nurse to dress Max again, he saw that his ankles were also sporting bruises. Jay narrowed his eyes. If Max had thrashed around somewhere else due to his fear of hospitals, it would explain the bruises.

Nice and simple.

He didn't like it.

"Doctor, he's regaining consciousness," the nurse said as he was re-attaching the portable monitors. They would be taking Max to the ICU as soon as there was an opening.

_Consciousness_ might have been a little bit of a stretch though. Max was trying to open his eyes with little success.

"I'll take it from here," McConnell said to the nurse, "but page me if there's an opening."

If the nurse thought it weird, he didn't say anything about it. He finished attaching the last electrode and went to see where else he was needed, which was probably the second and first floors. The train derailment crisis was far from over.

"Max, can you hear me?" McConnell addressed his patient. He still needed to know if Dr. Lake's claim about Max having anything to do with a print of some sort was valid or not. But more than that, he needed to understand what had happened to this man.

It took him a couple of seconds, but Max finally answered, "M- Michael?"

"No. I'm Dr. Jay McConnell. Do you know where you are?"

"C-Cold," Max said as he shivered, the reaction due more to the fever than the ice bath he had just endured.

"I know," McConnell said as he inspected his patient's pupils. Still dilated. He didn't like that. Whatever was causing this was still going strong. "I need you to tell me what happened to you."

"C-Cold," Max repeated, this time trying to lie on his side so he could get more warmth out of a fetal position. McConnell reached for a dry towel to wrap him in, when he noticed the most peculiar thing: something was glowing on Max's chest, beneath the hospital gown.

Placing the towel up to Max's lower torso, McConnell bent down to move the gown and see for himself what he already knew was impossible: Max's skin was the source of the glowing.

"What the—"

The doctor's eyes unglued from the glowing area to search Max's face, to search for an answer to what he was seeing. But Max kept his eyes closed, his body starting to shiver more violently now. The glowing strengthened for a second, the heart monitor spiking once again.

Whatever Max was doing, it was taxing him.

"Max, you have to stop," McConnell said with a firm voice, as if he had any idea what he was asking this man to end. He touched the glowing skin, slowly and a bit fearfully if he was going to be honest, and found Max's chest warming up.

Max was running a high fever, Jay reminded himself, but he suspected this warmth came from the glowing skin, an effort from Max's body to keep his temperature stable as it believed the temperature was too low. The human body did it all the time when it had a fever; the effort, that was, not the glowing.

It didn't matter. The glowing started to falter, and the monitor beside the stretcher started to show the distress Max's glowing act was causing his heart. McConnell was momentarily at a loss for what to do. An erratic heart he could work with; a glowing chest causing a cardiac arrest hadn't been covered in his medical practice though.

Logic told him that if Max's body wanted warmth, he could do that for it. He took the rest of the dry towels and wrapped the young man in them, deciding that if no result came from that, he would treat his very special –and very weird- patient as any other. He eyed the crash cart for the drugs he would need, already knowing what doses he would apply.

The glowing finally stopped a minute later, the beeping sound finally slowing down to a 120 beats per minute. Dr. McConnell noted that he would have to treat that heart as any other soon, since that rhythm had to be brought down. He just needed the lab tests.

As if on cue, the door opened, and a very pale Dr. Holt entered the room. He looked as if he had seen a ghost, and he kept looking like that as he stared at Max. McConnell turned to look at Max as well, not knowing if he was conscious or not.

"You've got the results?" McConnell asked Holt, now facing him, his voice a little bit impatient. Alec nodded, his eyes still glued to the towel-wrapped and glowless Max. For some reason, McConnell was not concerned about explaining the glowing reflex just yet.

"And?"

In a second, he would have other things to be concerned about.

"He's not… he's not human."


	4. Green

**Chapter 3  
Green  


* * *

**He had checked the blood test three times before searching for the original vial in the pile that was still waiting to be examined by the lab technicians. For all the good that did. It only confirmed what he had already seen.

The problem was, what he had already seen didn't make sense. The red little round blood cells he was expecting to see were nowhere to be found. Instead, the red hexagonal-like blood cells that met his eye in the microscope could not be interpreted as sick cells. These just weren't human cells.

He told as much to Dr. McConnell as the older doctor looked at him as if he were nuts. Exactly the same reason why Dr. Alec Holt had kept his mouth shut at the lab, and all the way to this room: Everyone would think he was nuts. He needed a senior doctor to check his data before going "public", or at least before informing the rest of the medical staff.

"You read too much science fiction," Dr. McConnell told him, though he didn't sound too convinced about that. He extended a hand so Alec could give him the lab results. "What did you find, besides alien blood cells?"

"I'm not making this up," Dr. Holt said with indignation.

"I'm not saying you are," McConnell said as he started to scan the lab sheets. "But something is making him sick..." he trailed off as he turned the pages. "He tested negative for drugs." The older doctor frowned, and turned his eyes to Max. "Where were you, kid?"

"What are we going to do?" Alec said as his eyes diverted to Max's form.

"We're going to keep doing tests until we find what's wrong with him," McConnell said, his eyes back on the lab sheets.

"You know what I mean. He could be dangerous. Who knows what he did to that girl? And you were there, when that... that... invisible force... Was he attacking us?" It did sound like a science fiction novel, Alec would give that to McConnell, but this thing was serious, and he suddenly felt light-headed at the thought that the man who was lying on that stretcher was not really a man.

"Calm down, Alec. Don't freak out on me." McConnell's stern voice cut through Holt's fear clear and sharp. "Take a minute and think this through. He could very well have thought we were attacking him in the ER, so he was defending himself. And it was a very feeble defense as well. If we're going to find out what he did to that child, we need to get him well enough—"

"... her."

They almost didn't hear the whispered sentence. Alec had assumed Max had been unconscious all the time, and as his own heart double its beating, McConnell turned to him and said, "Get him some water". He didn't have to be told twice. All he wanted was to get out of that room.

_What _were they going to do?

* * *

He had changed locations. That was about all he knew as he was trying to regain consciousness. His eyelids felt so heavy, and the thin fabric over his chest did nothing to warm him up. He was getting cold faster than he had ever experienced in his life.

Someone was talking, but he could hardly make sounds, let alone words. The voice was addressing him now. It sounded worried. It sounded like... "M- Michael?" His throat was still dry, but a little hope surged in his heart at the thought that Michael had finally found him.

"No. I'm Dr. Jay McConnell. Do you know where you are?"

Max felt his spirit sink. He wasn't safe yet... he wasn't anywhere he knew either. What if something had happened to Michael? What if— A shiver ran through his back halting all thought. He was so cold now. For the next few minutes all he could think about was that. He had to warm up, somehow, because he was so cold it tore at the very center of his being.

No sound penetrated the warmth cocoon he found himself in some time later. Minutes, hours? Murmurs started to drift his way, the voices vaguely familiar. The old one, and the young one. They sounded as if they were arguing about something. About... him.

Max focused all his attention on listening. He felt drained, exhausted really, and it was getting harder to remain awake.

"... He could be dangerous..." Snatches of conversation made it to his mind. He tried to shake his head "no". How many times did he have to say it? Why wouldn't they believe him? Why were they...

"...If we're going... what he did to that child..."

What child? He couldn't remember. He honestly didn't know... A memory passed through his mind of a little girl jumping through hoops. Of a pink bunny that could use a bath, as the same girl dragged it everywhere. And that same laughing and carefree face looked at him from half closed eyelids, life running out of her.

"I healed her..." Max managed to say, willing them to believe him, because he had no more strength to keep fighting them.

The voices stopped talking. A door was opened and closed in the distance, while someone bent over him.

"Don't try to speak just yet."

The old voice. He liked that voice. "I'm Dr. Jay McConnell. You're at Saint Paul's Hospital. You're safe here. We're not going to hurt you." Max felt a hand on his forehead, and tried to open his eyes. Something cold sneaked to his chest, making Max withdraw a little.

"I'm just listening to your heart..."

_That makes two of us_, Max absently thought as he could hear his heartbeat loud and clear in his ears. It was going fast. He should be running.

The door opened again and a second later water met his thirsty mouth. God, it felt so good. He was allowed two drinks, and then the paper cup was taken from his lips. He needed so much more.

"Easy... easy there... it's not going anywhere," the doctor said. A doctor... it couldn't be a good thing. It suddenly occurred to him that he was trying to tell them he had used his powers to heal a girl without knowing if they already _knew_. The cup returned, and Max tried to drink again as much as he could.

"You're going too fast..." off again, but this time Max had to rest his head for a second.

"What were you trying to do?" The young voice this time. It sounded uneasy, and a bit forceful. "Did you leave a handprint on her?"

Max slowly nodded, hoping to get some water before explaining himself. He did, but this time he swallowed slowly, a hand helping his head so he could drink more comfortable.

"You said you healed her," the older doctor said, "why the handprint?"

Max saw that pretty face again, the blond curly hair, the carefree laugh and the pink bunny. He remembered something else too. "I didn't... I didn't finish..." it was easier to talk now that his throat wasn't so dry, but concentrating was still a tricky act. "I started to... just enough for someone to... to notice. I can't help the handprint... It's always there..."

"Is she going to be okay?" Urgency colored the younger doctor's voice. Max didn't know. He hadn't finished. He had never really started it to finish it.

"Just enough time..." he whispered, finally opening his eyes to put a face to those voices. The light blinded him, and his eyes hurt. He closed them again.

"I want you to think hard, Max. Do you know what's making you sick?"

Blinding light illuminated Max's memories. The monitor's beeping went sky rocketing to match his own heartbeat. As the flight or fight instinct took over, Max's only thought was that he had to get out of there, the memory the old voice had stirred too powerful for Max to distinguish it from reality.

He felt a surge of pure adrenaline run through his veins, finally being able to fully open his eyes, sitting on the stretcher with all the intention to flee. Strong hands took hold of his arms, preventing him from moving anywhere.

"Let me go!" Max desperately said, not really knowing where he was, or who was with him. His hazel eyes met the older man's blue ones. Max's right hand lurched forward, shoving his assailant as far as he could with his mind. It wasn't much, and Max caught sight of the other man in the room. He was trapped, and they were coming for him.

His only other defense came from his green shield, and he used it without hesitation. In a way, it was easier to hold than telekinesis ever was, but it was only defensive. He had no offense working on his behalf, so he knew he would have to keep it up until he reached the door and, once out, melt the doorknob so he wouldn't be followed. It could work.

A drop of sweat ran down his left cheek. The beeping of the heart monitor was all the sound there was, and Max looked down at himself to start detaching the electrodes from his chest. Hadn't he done this already?

His feet found the cold floor as the monitor's line went flat, the last electrode hanging from the bed. He attempted his first step just to find his legs weren't all too firm. His left hand gripped the stretcher, as his right hand kept the shield up.

"Max, you're not well," the older man's face was distorted through the green electric shield. Max knew he wasn't well. He felt it in the weakness of his body, and the nausea that had risen as he had stood up. "We're not your enemy," the man insisted, as Max shook his head to think clearly. The shield was draining his strength, every ounce of it. He could turn it off and make for the door.

His mind assaulted him with a memory of a similar scenario. He hadn't reached the door then.

Max was panting, and the room was swaying once more. He had to get to the door; he had to get out of there. He had to keep running until he met Michael. That was the plan.

That was the plan.

His shield finally collapsed as Max started to run for the door. He hadn't reached 3 feet before he felt the stabbing sensation of a needle on his back. His vision had been blurring already, but whatever was in the needle accelerated the process of turning his world black.

* * *

Dr. Holt was barely able to hold Max before he hit the floor. McConnell was right behind him, as they both had run after their fugitive alien. He had seen the younger doctor grabbing a syringe from the crash cart as Max had practically jumped from the stretcher. If Jay was ever going to run a 104 fever, he hoped he would be just as energetic.

An alien. Uh. Well, maybe not. They knew he wasn't human. They didn't know what he really was. Whatever the case, it was easier to picture this man as an illegal immigrant than someone not belonging to the human race. The problem was, no human being would have a glowing chest, or a glowing, green… _thing_, but those facts only intrigued Jay McConnell more than anything in his entire medical career. If this being was, indeed, from another planet, the implications would crash on him later on. Right now his mind was dealing with the problem at hand: How to keep him alive.

"We should keep him sedated," Alec said, breathing heavily. Holt was scared, there was no denying it, but fear rarely served for good judgment, something both doctors knew. McConnell nodded in agreement. Another stunt like that was bound to get Max hurt. At least for the time being, they better keep their very frightened patient out of the loop.

Putting the mess they now found themselves in aside, they started to work, keeping things simple. Or at least trying to. They both lifted Max's body to the stretcher, McConnell trying to sort out what had happened. His mind came up blank.

What _had_ happened, anyway?

"Shit, what the hell was that green thing?" Dr. Holt said as he re-attached the electrodes, the monitor coming to life once again. Max's heart was determined to set a new world speed record, it would seem.

"You gave him metropolol in the ER, right?" Holt nodded as he went for the IV, finding a good vein in seconds. "We'll keep that. If he doesn't improve, let's switch to Bretylium once we get him to the ICU." _Let's hope we find the right drug to get that heart under control._

"He'll need a cardiologist," Holt absently said as he prepared the metropolol dose, almost as if reading McConnell's thoughts. As long as they were both busy with their patient, it was harder to sit down and digest the fact that he wasn't really human.

"Well, he's already got a neurologist and a traumatologist. The kid is in good hands," McConnell humorlessly joked as he once again checked Max's pupils.

"What the hell was that green thing?" Dr. Holt repeated while injecting the drug into one of Max's veins, both men watching the cardiac monitor for signs of it slowing down. It was.

"I don't know," the older doctor sincerely said, "but whatever is making him sick is already doing a number on his kidneys and liver. This green thing has just stressed his heart to kingdom come."

Holt stopped watching the vital signs and turned to look at the senior neurologist. "You can't take the data from those tests seriously. His biochemistry is not human. We don't know what we're dealing with here!"

Dr. McConnell took a minute to answer as he took Max's temperature again: 103.1 ºF. "We must be doing something right," he quietly said. Sighing, he turned to look at Dr. Holt.

"That's why we're sticking to the metropolol. We already know it works as it should." Holt's face was still skeptical. "Listen, we already know the basics are the same: One heart, two lungs, a central nervous system that shuts down with sedatives. A cold response to a high fever. He's not that different."

"We have no idea why his blood pressure is so unstable," Holt answered back.

"We have no idea what is causing this fever to begin with. He's not high on cocaine or suffering from withdrawal syndrome as you first thought. Whatever it is, once we figure it out it will explain the symptoms and will show us the way. Just like any other patient."

"We might end up killing him," Holt argued, looking more agitated now than before. "We can't just go 'trial and error' and hope we get lucky. He can't possibly react as human beings in all ways."

"Which means we're short on time," McConnell said with a small smile, going to the crash cart for another vial. "Keep doing the tests. Start by looking for uncommon psychotropic substances."

"What? Why? Why not infections? You think he's immune to viral or bacterial diseases?" One never knew, McConnell guessed at Holt's question, Max's very red and very human-looking blood finishing filling the vial.

"His white cell count wasn't that high," Dr. McConnell answered as he gave the dark blond man the blood. Dr. Holt didn't move to take it.

"Why are we doing this?" the younger doctor asked, concerned. McConnell frowned.

"Why shouldn't we?"

The parade of expressions that crossed Dr. Alec Holt's face would have been highly comical in any other circumstance but this one. He was stuck between being upset, scared, surprised and worried. "Why?" he finally was able to say, "Because we don't know what we're dealing with, that's why! Because we have no idea what he's able to do! Next time, it might be... it might be..."

"Laser beams?" McConnell supplied. Holt glared.

"You know what I mean, and don't tell me this thing isn't freaking you out as well."

A tense silence followed for a couple of seconds, the monitor providing Max's heartbeat as background music. "What is freaking me out is not knowing what was done to him. I don't understand what's going on anymore than you do, but instead of thinking _what_ he is, I'm more concerned with _who_ he is."

Lowering his voice, he continued, "I believe he did try to heal that child, and that it cost him dearly. Don't be blind, Alec. Right before your taxi driver showed up, this walking enigma of ours was running from someone. Someone with enough medical knowledge to cause those needle scars on his arms, and those bruises in his ankles and wrists."

Alec's eyes went down in search of those, his frown deep, clearly conflicting with what McConnell had concluded and his own fear. "He could still be dangerous. Especially for other patients."

"That's why I asked for an isolated ICU room. Listen Holt, I'm not stupid, but I think this man deserves the chance to at least explain himself. He wouldn't have stopped to aid that girl if he didn't care."

Both men stared at each other, the older willing the younger to believe him, or at least to give a chance to the sick man in between them. "Whoever had him is probably looking for him. And in the state Max got to your hands, how much longer do you think he would have lasted?"

Dr. Holt's face hardened. He had left Max beside the wall, and now his low priority patient had turned out to be a whole lot more.

A whole lot more indeed.

"Not to forget the mystery surgeon who did the biopsies as well."

"What?"

"There are fine scars on his abdomen." All the pieces fitted, but it was still circumstantial, McConnell knew. They could be dealing with a very dangerous being, but so far Max hadn't tried to hurt them, just to escape. He just hoped it was making as much sense to Dr. Holt as it was making to him.

The traumatologist didn't lose time as he went in search of those scars. McConnell's pager beeped.

"What the hell is that green thing?" Holt suddenly exclaimed as he took a step backwards. McConnell looked up from his pager, half expecting to see a reprise of the green shield. He almost wished that had been the case.

Green electrical lines were intermittently running through Max's arms. Dr. McConnell turned to look at Max's face, and then to the heartbeat monitor. The man was decidedly out like a light. He was not doing this on purpose. "Did it hurt you?" he asked Alec, both men fixed on the snake-like phenomenon.

"No. Not at all." Curiosity winning over, the young doctor finally placed his hand over their patient's arm, the electricity going up and down in seemingly erratic paths, but never touching Holt. "I don't feel anything."

"Did you find that cooling blanket?" McConnell asked, his eyes back at his pager.

"No, I ran to do the lab tests as you went ahead with the ice bath. Why? I thought his temperature was actually coming down?"

"It is. But we're going to have to hide those arms of his. We've just gotten our ICU room."

* * *

"That's one lucky girl," the cardiovascular surgeon said as he emerged from the OR. "Had you taken ten more minutes, that artery wouldn't have held."

Dr. Susan Lake uneasily smiled. "There were no complications?"

"It was easier than routine surgeries, that's for sure." They kept walking down the hall. "Any more kids like her?"

Three kids had been admitted to Saint Paul's Hospital ER. The first girl was already at the ICU after surgery. The second boy had been declared dead after ten minutes of resuscitation efforts. And the third girl, Sarah Meyer, had just made it out of open heart surgery. Out of the three children -out of all the victims- only Sarah had had the mysterious handprint.

Now, Nicholas Cramer, the surgeon, was looking at her intently. Though she had told the OR staff she had no idea what -or who- had left the handprint -and in a very technical way, she really didn't know either answer- Nick's baby blue eyes bored into hers, almost coaxing her to tell him the whole story about a stranger that had barely been admitted into the ER, and two hours later had almost collapsed over Sarah's stretcher.

Susan shook her head _no_. "She's the only one with it."

"Are you sure no one else has that handprint?" he openly asked now. The insistence was a bit unsettling. Susan Lake had never been a good liar.

"I've been working in the ER for six hours, and just came here when I heard you were finished. Sarah was the only victim with that freaky print on her chest four hours ago, and no one else has shown it since then either."

Unlike Dr. Alec Holt who had seen hexagonal blood cells and felt invisible forces, Dr. Lake didn't have anything concrete but a young man who in delirium believed he had somehow healed the girl; who had almost passed out in the ER room, and had gripped the girl's stretcher in an effort to not hit the floor. She had seen the stranger's hands: Clean. She had looked for gloves, for paint, for _any_ indication that would point to what had caused it. And just like Alec Holt, she would wait. At least until she had solid proof before opening her mouth.

One thing was for sure, though: She was not going to take her eyes off that man. Once she could find where Dr. McConnell had placed him, that is.

A nurse passed them in the hall. Nick looked at her uneasily, and followed the woman's progress with impatient eyes. Once she was out of earshot, he turned to look at the pediatrician.

"Listen. There was something... _similar_ about four or five years ago, in Houston, I think. Five patients with cancer, all kids. One Christmas morning, BANG! All healed. It was labeled a 'Christmas Miracle' because angels healed those children."

"Angels?" Susan asked, not sure where this was going, "Because it was Christmas?"

"Because they all had a silver handprint on their chests. The thing is, out of the five, only three were Christians, one was Jewish, and the other's family didn't follow any religion."

"It was a hoax," Dr. Lake said as a matter of fact, though her heart was racing now, her mind back to the man, bending on the stretcher over the small body of Sarah Meyer.

"That's what everyone thought. A hoax, or a diversion. The kids were undergoing experimental treatment, after all. I didn't hear much about it afterwards, probably the hospital not wanting to mess with their 'miracle', but I remember the part about the handprint. And the last thing we need is people thinking there are angels wandering around, healing the wounded, or what have you. We already have a crisis here."

"What... what do you mean? That the fewer people who know..."

"The better. Exactly. I've already warned my staff. We are going to run tests on it, figure out what the hell that silver handprint is. But quietly, and I suggest you do the same. If you find someone else, some other related incident—"

"You think it's dangerous?" Dr. Lake interrupted the veteran surgeon. "The handprint?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it. It's not paint, at least nothing commonly known. It just doesn't seem to be doing anything. No inflammation, no burnt tissue. It's just there." Dr. Cramer sighed in frustration, while Susan's thoughts raced through all the negative implications. The surgeon looked down at his watch. "I better keep going and start those tests. The sooner we know, the safer these people will be."

There was something about that statement, something about the fact that it could be more than just one little girl, that made Susan's heart skip a beat. Dr. Nicholas Cramer hadn't walked more than four steps when she called him.

"Dr. Cramer. It might be nothing, but there's something you should know. About an ER incident…"


	5. Patterns

**Chapter 4  
Patterns  


* * *

**

Wherever he was, it was a warm place. Maybe a little too warm, but he couldn't really focus on it. He felt heavy. His entire body felt as if it were under 30 blankets, making it impossible for him to move.

Someone was with him, that much he knew. He could feel the presence dimly through the darkness that surrounded him, but he did not feel threatened by it.

A voice called him. Not from where he felt the presence, and not from anywhere around him, but from within himself. Though it was already pitch black, he closed his eyes, and tried to listen.

"… Max…" the whisper came again, urgent, worried.

Familiar.

"Isabel?"

* * *

Jay McConnell could watch those EEG patterns for hours.

Dr. Holt had been right about one thing concerning their very unique patient: He didn't react as human beings in all ways. The brain waves that were being registered by the EEG were proof of that. The neurologist in him was fascinated with what these patterns could reveal, so similar to humans, yet different. The doctor in him was afraid that all he could do was to see if the pattern was stable or not, and hope nothing was wrong. Without a proper MRI, McConnell couldn't know how things were going in the deepest areas of his patient's brain.

Though in the past three and a half hours he had been on and off the ICU to help the victims from the train at the ER, he had made sure to periodically check on his patient. The green light in his arms had disappeared rather fast once McConnell and Holt had settled him in, and none of the nurses had done as much as to give the neurologist a side glance every time he came. The hospital was still a madhouse, but the ICU nurses did their work well, which meant everything looked normal to them.

Max did look normal, indeed. X-rays had come back remarkably human, for once, which had trashed the idea that he was from another species altogether. That his body worked like any other human body on so many levels was just stunning.

Of course, on close inspection, things did change. A lot. Things like blood cells. Like brain waves. Like glowing chests and green energy shields. Things like McConnell's ability to read the results from the few tests they had managed so far. How many more surprises were in store? How much time did they have before Max's stable condition took a turn for the worse? How could they help him?

Dr. McConnell sighed, his eyes searching Max's face. If McConnell was reading the patterns right, Max was still in a deep sleep, dangerously close to a coma. What concerned him the most was that, by the sedative dose he had received, he should have woken up an hour ago. Alien biochemistry was proving to be interesting, assuming, of course, it was alien.

There were other things that were worrying him, besides his patient's wellbeing. Max had said that he couldn't help leaving a handprint. _It's always there..._ he had insisted, which obviously implied Max had done this before.

Max had also said that he had healed _her_, clearly referring to Sarah Meyer, but then he had thought better of it and said he had giving her enough time for someone to notice.

"You were already too weak…" Dr. McConnell whispered, trying to piece together this young man's previous hours in the ER. "What did you see in Sarah that made you stop?" Max's heart was still beating faster than it should –at least by human standards- and his fever had stubbornly remained at 103. The senior doctor wanted to run a million tests, but as it was, he had had to waitlist Max for the MRI.

"You picked one hell of a night to fall into our hands," Jay smiled sadly. It was probably the best thing that could have happened to Max, because the fewer people who knew, the better chance Max had to recover.

It had taken Jay a 15 minute argument with Dr. Holt to make him see why it was so important to keep Max a secret for the time being. Granted, McConnell didn't know if this man, if this _being_ wasn't dangerous, or if he hadn't escaped from the good guys, but McConnell couldn't forget Max, hardly being able to walk, bending over little Sarah's body.

He had already checked with cardiology and had learned that Sarah had just been out of the OR. Complications had been minimal, especially for such a complex surgery. Maybe it was a coincidence, McConnell thought, but he was sure that Max had somehow helped that kid.

He needed to understand Max, and to know without a shadow of a doubt if he was a good guy or not. To do so, he couldn't have the entire world watching his every move. Or attract unwanted attention from whomever had held Max the past few days. Alec had relented for the time being, making McConnell promise that the minute things got dangerous, they would call the show off. If things would be done Alec's way, Max would remain sedated until Judgment Day.

He was playing with things he didn't understand, Alec had said, and Jay had reluctantly accepted that he didn't. But what was the point of calling themselves doctors, men of science, if they were going to let their fear of the unknown win? Besides, Max certainly needed their help.

"Am I making the right decision?" he finally wondered out loud, thinking who would he call if Max turned out to be more than they could handle. NASA? SETI? He passed a hand over his already graying hair, making himself forget the long hours he had already worked. This was no time to feel tired and to lose focus.

Something suddenly changed in the brain patterns, making McConnell frown, his hand frozen in place for a moment. It didn't look like Max was waking up, but something was going on in his mind. There was no REM, so he wasn't dreaming. Where on normal patients McConnell would expect to see delta waves, Max's were resembling alpha, and at the moment, they had just changed into beta waves, which more likely than not meant that some high process of thinking was going on.

Seconds went by as McConnell waited for something else to happen. Besides the wave pattern, everything else remained the same.

Max's left hand twitched.

A subtle movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids followed a few seconds later. Was it REM movement? REM wasn't supposed to happen with beta waves. But then again, _sleep_ wasn't supposed to happen either.

Max's lips moved. Though he still remained unconscious, he was starting to talk in his sleep. Dr. McConnell got closer, trying to make out what his patient was saying. The heart monitor indicated that his heartbeat was increasing. For all he knew, Max was having a nightmare.

"—can't…"

It was difficult to understand Max's murmurs, probably because half of them weren't really words at all. His head was starting to move, as if denying something he was hearing or seeing.

"... they'll see you..."

McConnell frowned at the monitors, moving from Max's side to search for a light sedative. He had to calm him down. His heart was stressed enough as it was, and the few drugs they had already tried had stopped doing their work a few hours before. Without further tests, McConnell didn't want to risk experimenting with any other. The problem was, he also didn't want to keep Max sedated any longer, since the long term effects of sedation were equally unknown.

"...stay... stay away..."

Finding what he was looking for, McConnell glanced at the monitors to back up his decision. Nodding once to himself, he turned around in search of the IV, the needle with the sedative in hand.

Max opened his eyes, and his whole body jolted for a second, as if Max had thought he was falling. His breathing was short and rapid, his eyes unfocused, as Dr. McConnell stood still, unsure for a split second of letting Max stay awake or not. By now, the doctor had had time to think of Alec's words, and the young doctor's fears had found a place at the back of his mind. Was Max dangerous?

"Just stay away... please stay away..." Max pleaded, his eyes moving but not seeing anything. Taking advantage of Max's disorientation, McConnell brought the needle to the IV, but didn't inject the clear liquid. He held it there, just in case he decided Max shouldn't rejoin the waking world.

"...stay away..." Max kept repeating, his heart still accelerated.

"Max. No one is coming for you," the older man said, stilling his nerves, resolved to take charge of the situation.

For a moment, Max's eyes remained moving without staying anywhere, and then he stopped, finally focusing on the doctor.

"They're using me as bait," Max explained, still agitated, "she can't know where I am... she can't know... they'll trap her... they'll trap them... they'll... I'm their bait... I can't let... her... I..." The adrenaline rush that had woken him up was dwindling by now, McConnell knew, as Max's eyes were starting to shut heavily. It didn't look like the sedative was going to be used anytime soon.

Max shook himself awake again, his breathing still fast, but not as agitated as before. He seemed more attuned to reality as well. His eyes focused on some point on the bed. "I can't fall asleep," he said more to himself in a barely audible whisper.

"It was just a dream, and you're in a safe place," McConnell tried to reassure Max. It didn't seem like Max had heard him though, as he kept trying to not shut his eyes.

"It's not a dream," he finally said, his eyes closing despite his efforts. His heartbeat was finally returning to its previous 120 beats. "She'll find me," Max said with conviction. "If I fall asleep, she'll find me."

"Who?" McConnell asked, thinking maybe he would get an answer to one of the million questions he had concerning Max's recent whereabouts. But Max didn't answer, though by the tension in his arms, the doctor could tell he was not falling asleep either. "Max, who is after you? Who's using you as bait?"

Max finally opened his eyes, staring right ahead of him. "They are," he whispered, and then blinking, he turned to look at Jay. Recognition escaped him, and McConnell felt rather foolish about standing there, holding the syringe that was inserted in the IV ready to inject the sedative.

"I'm Dr. McConnell," he repeated for the third time that day to his patient, "you are at Saint Paul's Hospital."

Max's attention was lost as he started fighting sleep again. "I have to stay awake," he half said, half mumbled.

"Max, it's okay to rest. You need to rest." This time, the doctor moved to Max's side again. Taking a small flash light out of one of his pockets, he examined Max's pupils once more. Max flinched at the sudden ray of light. His pupils were slow in reaction, but at least weren't fully dilated as before.

Max turned his face to the other side, and after a second, started to move as well, as if trying to get out of the bed.

"Wait, wait, wait. You're in no position to go anywhere, son," McConnell said with concern, reaching for Max's shoulders and steadying him down. He eyed the needle that he had left in the IV, still within his reach.

"I have to keep… running," Max said, as if that explained everything.

"No one is chasing you here," the neurologist soothingly said.

"They are…" Max whispered, his eyes locking with the doctor's.

"They don't know you're here," McConnell insisted. Though Max was offering no resistance, the older man knew that Max would flee the place as soon as he could. He had to reassure him this was the safest place he could be, so he would stay.

"I have to stay awake," Max whispered again, as if he were confiding a secret. "I can't let her… find me… or they'll… they'll take her too," he said with apprehension, now fighting really hard to stay awake. What had this woman done? Was Max actually protecting her, or was he afraid of her? And why was he connecting her to his dreams?

"Who is she, Max? Is she family? A friend?" McConnell's eyes diverted for a second to Max's left hand, the telltale sign of a wedding ring imprinted on his skin. A ring that hadn't come with him when Max had been admitted, Alec had confirmed that.

But the question came too late. Max lost his battle against unconsciousness, the beta waves going back to the alpha-like waves. He was falling into a deep sleep again. McConnell checked the monitors, and raised his eyebrows when he saw that not only was Max's temperature finally breaking, being now at 101°F, but that Max's heartbeat was finally slowing down as well. 112. 104. 96.

Someone tapped on the glass wall.

Still in surgery garments, Dr. Nicholas Cramer was impatiently looking at him. With a movement of his head, the chief of cardiology indicated to the chief of neurology to have a word outside. Dr. McConnell let go a frustrated sigh. He had been giving consults and helping patients for the past six hours. It was just as well that Max had passed out right now. It would be better if he could remain unconscious until Jay could stay around for longer periods.

The cardiac monitor read 82 by the time he stepped out of the isolated ICU room.

"What can I do for you?" Dr. McConnell said in a good manner. Under stressful days, he always tried to sound cheerful. It helped tons with the staff.

"Dr. Lake told me to speak with you. About a John Doe you treated at the ER. Someone who wasn't from the train derailment."

"Sure. What do you need to know?" His cheerfulness diminished just a bit; Jay didn't like where this was going.

"This might sound strange," the surgeon said, "but we've just treated a little girl, Sarah Meyer. She had this… glowing… handprint…" As Dr. Cramer's words started to trail off, Dr. McConnell noticed that his eyes had also got lost behind him on the glass wall. Staring right into Max's room.

"Dr. McConnell," Nicholas said as Jay turned to look behind, "your patient is… glowing."

Indeed he was.

* * *

They both rushed inside the room without a second thought.

It was funny how Dr. Cramer didn't stop to think about the absurdity of someone having a glowing chest, but he instantly assumed it had to do with Sarah Meyer's own handprint. The girl's medical condition hadn't been different from any other children under the circumstances, the handprint having no effect whatsoever on her body. His mistake was thinking that the same was happening to Dr. McConnell's patient, that the glowing would somehow dissipate into a handprint, and that the neurologist would be at a loss for what to think or do. So when he heard McConnell's words…

"God, not again…"

… Cramer stopped in his mental tracks. This wasn't new for the senior doctor.

They had by now reached the bed. Both doctors had turned their eyes to the monitors, and just when the cardiologist was going to ask for the patient's history, McConnell opened his mouth first. It was obvious this wasn't shocking to him in the same way it was shocking to Cramer.

"We need to warm him up," the neurologist said a second later, shaking Cramer's thoughts.

"You know what's happening to him?" he asked as he went for the thermal blankets in one of the cabinets. The glowing was starting to falter, flickering like a light bulb just about to go off. The man's skin was really pale, and his lips were starting to turn slightly blue.

"I know he did this when he was having a cold reaction against a high fever about four hours ago. But now his body temperature has just dropped to 92." McConnell turned in search of something else while Cramer returned with the blankets.

Nicholas paused and turned to look at the temperature indicator. It was impossible someone's temperature would drop just like that, especially in a controlled environment like the ICU. Something was obviously wrong with the equipment, he concluded in the space of a heartbeat, but his eyes got stuck on the closest monitor. "I hope you're looking for the epi," he said as his eyes caught the heart monitor, "because his pulse is also dropping."

The neurologist stopped for a second, turning to look for himself. In a fluid movement, he grabbed the syringe with the clear drug and went searching for the closest vein. He found one just as the monitor marked 48. If it kept getting slower, or even remained that slow, not enough oxygen would reach the brain.

"What's wrong with him?" Cramer asked as he started wrapping Max's body in the thermal blankets, both doctors looking at the monitors. With the burst of epinephrine, his rhythm accelerated almost immediately, and the glowing intensified, covering Max's chest and abdomen.

"I wish I knew," McConnell answered, his eyes still glued to the monitors. "You know how you were saying I might find your little girl's glowing handprint strange? Well, it might be low in the strange scale right now."

"This is… this is that man. That man Dr. Lake was talking about," the cardiologist said surprised, for the first time really aware he had absolutely no idea what was he dealing with. The man's heartbeat surpassed 100 beats per minute, making Jay curse. As if in automatic mode, Nicholas reached for Dr. McConnell's stethoscope hanging from his neck. If there was something Dr. Cramer knew, it was about hearts.

"I think the glowing is stressing out his heart," Dr. McConnell said as Dr. Cramer hesitated for a moment right over Max's cardiac muscle, the glowing still going strong. He put the cold metal end of the stethoscope on Max's chest, expecting to feel something strange as he did so. The only thing he felt was warmth.

"Anything else I should know besides the glowing?" Cramer asked looking directly at McConnell, though his attention was really on listening to this stranger's heart.

"There might be some green energy involved," the older man said as he returned to keep watch on the monitors, Cramer's eyes trailing to the glowing skin.

"Right…" the cardiologist absently said, assuming it was a joke. He was more concerned with what he was hearing through the stethoscope. "How long has this been going on?" he asked, his eyes going back to the heartbeat monitor. "What the hell?"

Max's temperature was reaching 96 degrees. If it was impossible for someone's temperature to suddenly drop to a mild hypothermia, it was equally absurd for the body to regain its almost normal temperature in the space of minutes.

The glowing started to dissipate. The man's color was returning, though it was far from looking colorful.

"Dr. Holt thought he was having an extremely high fever when he was admitted in the ER, but by the time he measured it, it wasn't that high, around 103. I bet something similar happened then as it did just now." McConnell's words came rather calm and full of acceptance. This really wasn't shocking for him at all. "His blood pressure has been a roller coaster the whole time though. We haven't been able to slow down his heart rate below 120."

As if on cue, the heart monitor reached 120 beats per minute and remained there. The temperature indicator settled in at 100.2. Hanging the stethoscope around his neck more out of reflex than anything else, Dr. Cramer went for the patient's chart. He frowned at how little it had on it, especially for an ICU patient.

"The labs are swamped," McConnell said as if reading his thoughts. "And half of the information we've managed to get from the few tests we've done just doesn't make sense. So don't think those are mistakes on the chart."

Indeed, half of what he was reading seemed to contradict itself. Not even a first year resident would make such errors.

"What the hell is going on here?" Cramer said, exasperated, as his eyes went for the cardiac information. He hadn't liked what he had heard from that heart, but what he was reading was just, well... absurd.

Dr. McConnell sighed in resignation as the vital signs seemed to stabilize at something less than encouraging. Not taking his eyes from the patient's EEG monitor, he started to answer his question.

"It all started about six hours ago..."

* * *

The ER was a somehow calmer place, but the hospital was still closed to new emergencies. Entire families tried to make it to the wall where the list of identified victims was, searching for their loved ones. At least four hospitals were at full capacity. For those who didn't find the name they were looking for here, there were still places to search, temporary shelters for those with minor injuries. They would look everywhere until there was nowhere left but the morgue.

Until there was no sign of life.

And that was exactly what the tall man in the black coat thought as his expert eyes went from one face to another. The Unit would keep looking until there was no trace to follow. His target was six and a half hours ahead of them, but they still had a good chance since he was too weak to move too fast.

Checking the hospitals was a long shot, and Agent Walker was aware that if Max Evans was going to walk into a hospital, chances were _something_ would have reached the official channels by now. One didn't have a human-alien hybrid under the microscope and not notice. Still, all probable locations were being checked, including hospitals. The train derailment accident wasn't helping any, since hundreds of people were inundating every available space in the hospitals and shelters, dozens of men fitting Evans' description everywhere.

On a normal night, it would have been pretty easy to call the hospitals for any John Doe. But this was no normal night, and they were chasing no normal target. Besides, Dr. Shore had warned them they were in a hurry. Their hybrid didn't have much time.

"Can I help you?" a man politely asked Agent Walker. He turned with a grieving face.

"I'm sorry doctor, I'm sure you must have heard this all night, but," Walker said, deliberately mistaking the male nurse for a doctor to make him feel more important. The Agent took a picture of Max out of his left pocket. "Have you seen this man?" The light shone on the nurse's name plate, as Walker mentally filed it.

Howard.


	6. Wingless

**Chapter 5  
Wingless  


* * *

**

"_In a dramatic turn that can only be described as a miracle, five children with terminal cancer awoke on Christmas morning to find themselves healed, a handprint on their chest. Authorities at the Phoenix Hospital declined further comment other than that the children had been undergoing an experimental treatment, but urged people to remain cautious as..."_

Dr. Holt stopped in his reading to suppress a yawn. It was close to 2:00 a.m. but the hospital was showing no sign of slowing down. Granted, the crisis was under control now, but there were too many patients and too many people looking for those patients for the hospital to resume normal hours. And yet here he was, reading news articles from four years ago while waiting for the results of the tests he had begun a couple of hours before.

Between assisting the ER, his own previous patients and the new ones, Holt had made time to do a quick search about glowing hands, which had lead to useless magic tricks websites and the sort. He added hospitals, which lead to TV shows. He added unexplained. He added sickness. Blood cells. Symptoms. It wasn't until he added children and miracles that things started to go in the direction he wanted.

A Phoenix hospital one Christmas morning. Five children had been completely healed, only handprints left behind.

A Christmas Miracle.

He had read eleven articles so far out of the twenty three he had printed, but not a single one of those was a medical bulletin or science journal. Heck, not even the hospital itself had released an official statement about their findings later on. Christmas had come and gone, and the news had gotten old.

The children had insisted it had been an angel. Well, two of them at least had said so. The others had been too out of it to notice if a giant troll had come and gone through their beds. The thing was, they all had been completely healed, while little Sarah Meyer had barely made it into the OR.

Well, if the early tests results were any indication, their miracle maker wasn't doing so good. Max _had_ said he had healed the girl enough to buy her time, Alec remembered, but still...

The young doctor had had more than enough time to try to come up with an explanation to what he had been seeing under the microscope for the past four hours. These articles were just feeding a fire that was already out of control.

What if he was an angel? What if the kids had been right? What if… What if angels could actually die?

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Granted, it was late, and it had been a crazy night, but he could do better than this.

First of all, there was no guarantee whomever had healed those children in Phoenix was the same man that was lying on an ICU room on the floor below. Secondly, who said he was the only one capable of this? And thirdly, for all he knew, angels couldn't get sick. And if they didn't find an answer soon about what was happening to him, Max's future didn't look too bright.

So, okay, the guy wasn't a wingless angel that had been brought by a taxi driver and had bumped into Sarah Meyer's stretcher. But, he wasn't an alien either. The x-rays had proved as much. The DNA test would take longer to get, but one thing was for sure: He was, at least, partly human.

It was as Dr. McConnell had said: The man had two lungs, one heart and a central nervous system. But more than that, he had the telltales of life on Earth such as old scars and tan marks; and remarkable antibodies. Alec whistled inwardly. Maybe he wasn't human, but he had been living on Earth for quite some time if his body had manufactured so many little white cells.

Alec had tested for infections despite the white cell count being reasonably normal, and as he had gotten more specific, the more this angel's immune system had astonished him. He was definitely not fighting a virus or bacterium. The poor bastards didn't have a chance against Max's body.

So, what was happening to him? Some sort of autoimmune disease? A rare genetic syndrome? An allergic reaction? They barely knew anything about their patient's biochemistry to rule those out, even if the symptoms were more than a little unusual. And speaking of which, he was now waiting for the results Dr. McConnell had asked him for earlier: He was looking for unusual psychotropic drugs.

The problem was, without a reference, anything could look like an unusual psychotropic drug. Even the sedatives they had knowingly applied showed up in the tests a bit distorted. Where did that leave them then? They could be staring at the most common drug used ever, and the test sheets would just show something completely out of this world, no pun intended.

Alec felt he was running uphill, and that the hill was getting steeper by the second.

He glanced at the articles, all pretty much variations of one another, but all saying the same thing: Five kids at death's door had been healed. Whoever had healed them could only have good intentions, right? And Max… Max had been so out of it, so sick, yet he had stopped to help that child in the only way he knew how. Bad guys wouldn't do that.

Right?

Alec felt responsible. He was the one who had admitted Max in the first place. Whatever the outcome, everyone involved in this thing was somehow his responsibility. But who was Max? Who was this helpless stranger who _always_ left handprints behind?

So, okay. He had accepted his patient was at least part human. What was the other part then? Trying to not get over himself, he tried to calmly rationalize this whole thing. Another human-like species? An evolutionary jump? Some sort of mutant? A time traveler? An alien? A government experiment? _Someone's_ experiment?

And what about if he had been right all along? Did angels have hexagonal blood cells? Invisible force fields? Green energy shields? Green electric… _stuff_? He stopped in his tracks after displaying all that in his mind. No one could blame him from thinking alien here. Seriously.

The machine next to him beeped, startling him a little. The results for the latest tests were up, and he eagerly got the sheet out.

As his eyes scanned the numbers, he found himself hoping his young healer was really a wingless angel. Because angels couldn't get sick, and if Max was anything else, then these results didn't bring good news to him.

* * *

Dr. Susan Lake had way too many things on her mind.

Just like Alec Holt had made time to do a little research by himself, Dr. Lake had done some research of her own between attending patients and searching for Dr. McConnell. The few minutes she had been able to talk with Dr. Cramer had left her uneasy, which she hadn't liked one bit. Truth to be told, she had taken it as a personal matter to get to the bottom of this handprint business, so she had done a little more than Alec had been able to.

After the first few articles on the Christmas Miracle had popped up, Lake had taken the phone and had called her colleague at the Phoenix Hospital, one Dr. Hayden, to get the real inside story, not the incomplete, vague, and divine stories she had been finding for the last two hours.

The pediatrician hadn't been too open about giving the information, probably thinking she was yet another reporter or something. Only when she admitted that they were seeing the same phenomenon had things picked up speed. And boy, did he love to talk.

"There wasn't anything to find," Hayden was saying about the handprints test results, "they just vanished. About four days after the incident, they began to fade. By the fifth day, they were gone. No traces left."

"But none of the kids were harmed?" she asked with apprehension.

"Harmed? You couldn't even find a knee scratch!" came the amused voice of the older pediatrician. "You know how the press centered on the fact their cancer was gone? What no one got to know was that every single thing that was wrong with those kids was just… fine afterwards. Healed. We didn't say anything out there. Not even their parents wanted so much to be out once the nutcases started coming to the hospital to see the 'miracle children'. Those kids had gone through enough in their short lives to suddenly become religious icons."

"So the parents forbade any information to come out?" Susan asked, frowning. One mother in particular had sounded all around thrilled that her son was cured. But after the first couple of days, the parents' quotes had dropped to zero.

"They were reluctant," Hayden said at the other side of the phone. "And frankly, so were we. But the truth is, once the handprints were gone, there was nothing to keep going on the strange side. To this day, they still come for check-ups every month."

"And?"

"And nothing extraordinary or even a little unusual comes out. They're kids. They've gotten sick just with everything you would expect a kid to get sick of. But the cancer never came back. Officially, they are in remission. Off the record, you couldn't find traces of cancer anywhere in their system. It's as if they never had it." A pause. "Tell me about your girl."

Lake hesitated for a fraction of a second. She didn't have that much to go on, but it was fair enough that she would tell this man what she knew after he had had the same courtesy with her. "You've been watching the news? Big train derailment?"

"Mhm…"

"Kid got a front seat view. She was brought in about an hour after the accident. She was stable, so she was labeled low priority. Next thing you know, I'm rushing her to the OR with a silver handprint on her chest, which doesn't seem to be doing anything."

"She wasn't healed." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

"Not exactly…" Susan reluctantly admitted. "The surgeon said the procedure had had few complications, which was unusual. Ten minutes more, though, she would have been gone." They both contemplated the facts for a second.

"This is the first time I heard of anyone with a silver handprint story outside this hospital. Maybe it just didn't work this time," Hayden said.

"Maybe it doesn't work on injuries, just cancer," Lake elaborated.

"Or maybe it needs to be Christmas," Dr. Hayden humorlessly laughed at his own joke. "But the only way we'll ever know for sure is if we caught the hand that leaves those handprints." The heavy silence that followed was more than a little giveaway, and Susan realized that too late. Hayden knew what it meant as if a brick wall had hit him, "You caught him." She couldn't even deny it.

They both hold their breaths. Complete strangers at each side of the phone, contemplating the ramifications of such statement. Susan recovered first.

"How do you know it's a him?"

"My God…" Dr. Hayden slowly breathed out. "What is he saying?" She didn't answer. It had been bad enough she had sort of framed a man when she talked to Dr. Cramer, no matter how good her reasons had been, but she was not about to go all paranoid on a man in another state. Not until she knew more about this whole thing.

Dr. Hayden seemed to sense he was not going to get any answers if he didn't give one first. "By the size of the handprint we knew we were dealing with at least a young male adult. Maybe even a little younger. The kids referred to him as a male angel, though the details were blurry." That telltale pause that he knew something but wasn't sure if he should go on made itself present. Susan didn't say a word.

"We think we got them on a video security camera, from the hall."

"_Them_?" Susan asked, her eyes going round.

"The one that stood guard, and the one who went in. Both male. Both wingless."

"So much for the angel story," she said under her breath. "You never found them? Identified them?"

"We tried. They just vanished. What were we supposed to do? Call a press conference a week later, showing the video around? The implications alone that the hospital had had such a severe breach of security were enough for that video to never see the light of day. The police crossed reference it with their data base. Nothing came out. We didn't think it would. Once it was obvious the kids were more than okay, we just dropped the matter altogether. The parents weren't going to sue for their kids being healthy."

"Could you send me a copy? A picture? I'll settle for a description," Dr. Lake said. If she had sounded needy, she didn't care.

Dr. Hayden chuckled. "First things first, Dr. Lake. What _has_ been happening on your end of things. Who is he?"

_That, my friend,_ Dr. Susan Lake thought as she took a deep breath before starting to describe the little she had seen, _is the million dollar question._

* * *

Dr. McConnell stared at the lab sheets in front of his eyes. He stared and stared, as if by doing so they would make sense. But they didn't, and McConnell's mind was running out of ideas. Thankfully, his mind wasn't the only one involved.

Beside him, Dr. Holt was staring through the window. It was close to 3:00 a.m. and Max had finally managed a spot on the MRI. His condition had been stable, though it hadn't improved one bit. Still, the one good thing about Max being unconscious was that he wouldn't go through the stress of the MRI scan. Hardly any patient ever felt comfortable inside the machine, and he somehow doubted Max would stay still for the 45 minutes or so the test lasted.

He wearily sighed. McConnell just hoped that whatever was going to come up on that screen was going to be something he would understand.

Dr. Cramer chose that moment to enter the control room. Holt and McConnell let go a breath they hadn't realized they had been holding since they had first heard the door opening.

"I came as fast as I could," the broader man said, his eyes going to the monitor.

How McConnell had pretty much kept Max a secret to 95% of the staff was a mystery. It really was, but he thanked the stars for that luxury. He would love to consult dozens of specialists, but he would have to do with the knowledge that the three of them possessed at that moment.

"We're just starting," Holt said above a whisper, almost afraid someone else was going to hear him.

Holt was interesting to watch, McConnell thought. He had gone from being scared out of his skin, to being a co-conspirator in this matter. What had the young traumatologist thought in the couple of hours he had been away doing the tests and attending other patients?

"Make sure to have a good look at his heart," Cramer said, his eyes never leaving the monitor. "We might find out what's making it beat so fast."

"What do you expect to find?" McConnell asked, interested in hearing any theory other than the sinister one he was so fixated on.

"It could be a couple of things, but if we find protuberances or small masses around his heart, it would account for his rapid heartbeat and unstable blood pressure."

"It won't explain all the scars he has," Holt said as he started the MRI.

"It does if you look at it backwards," Cramer explained, getting their attention. "As you explained it, Jay, you think someone caused this. Held him against his will, he escaped, and here he is, with the consequences of what was done to him, right?"

"In a nutshell, yeah."

"But what if he was first sick, and then everything that was done was to save him. It would explain the needle marks, the biopsies… and in some twisted way, I guess even the restraint marks. You said he was terrified of needles in the ER."

"It doesn't explain the bruises on his chest and shoulder," Holt interrupted. "That's not medical induced, not even related."

"I'm not saying my theory is flawless, just that we should keep looking for other causes that will explain his symptoms," Cramer said a bit defensively.

"You're right," McConnell said, knowing that the last thing they needed was to start arguing over a moot point. No one knew what had happened to Max. "And it's a good theory. I sure like it better than mine."

Well, that wasn't entirely true. If the cardiologist was right, about Max's heart or about any physical condition causing this, and in the end the only possible way to save their patient was in an OR, then they were screwed. Starting with Max's blood "type" and ending with the entire OR staff knowing everything there was to know…

The images started to come, McConnell's dark thoughts dissolving as his curiosity took over. All three kept silent as they watched with rapt attention every inch of Max's body, literally from the inside out.

"He's so remarkably human," Cramer whispered, expert eyes taking special notice of Max's heart. Nothing was out of the ordinary besides the fact that it was still going too fast.

"Until the DNA test comes back, we can't rule that out," Holt equally whispered.

Cramer chuckled for no apparent reason as they passed the chest. "Well, the press wasn't right either. At least we can rule out invisible wings here. They would have showed up by now."

No wingless angel for the three doctors, McConnell mused for a second. Holt had met with both Cramer and McConnell just as the neurologist had been finishing briefing the other doctor, a dozen or so articles in his hand. It was rather intriguing what the articles were saying; not about the angel angle, but about the five kids healed.

Had it really been Max? Someone like Max? Or were the two incidents completely unrelated? For a second, McConnell hoped that it had been someone similar to Max, maybe even the girl from Max's dreams, because it would mean that someone on this planet knew what was happening to him.

As they finally went for the brain, McConnell wasn't sure what to expect, really, but Cramer's theory that Max had been sick first and trapped later did make sense. So he was more alert to finding physical abnormalities than before.

He didn't exactly find that. What he found was electrical activity in places that puzzled him. In some way, maybe this would explain why the EEG results had been strange as well. The brain structure was the same, but it was being used in a different way.

"It kind of makes you hope he would start glowing," Cramer said with a bit of humor. McConnell absently smiled, as he started to see a change in the patterns. He moved his eyes to the monitor that showed Max's face. His eyes were moving beneath his eyelids.

"I think he's dreaming," McConnell said, following the patterns changing in the MRI: Memory centers were flaring alive. A second thought occurred to him then, "or just remembering…"

And God, what wouldn't Jay McConnell give to know what Max was remembering right now.


	7. Run!

**Chapter 6**  
_**Run!**_

* * *

He remembered the sound. The loud, pounding-like sound of the machine, going on and on at equal intervals, and the almost claustrophobic effect it had on him.

He didn't feel safe in this place, despite the voice that kept reassuring him he was doing great. A voice that was echoing in his memories and had nothing to do with the reality surrounding him, where his new doctors were whispering amongst themselves, instead of being beside him, asking him questions he had already answered.

He hadn't minded the questions then. They had been easy to understand and easy to respond to. It was the sound he hadn't liked, that had made him nervous.

And now that he was inside one of those machines again, memories were coming back to him, clearer now than before he had found himself in that terrible ER. It was no longer 3:00 a.m. in Saint Paul's Hospital; it was four days before, running down an alley right before nightfall, breathless . . .  
.

. . . _"I think we lost them," Max's words_ _came rushed as he was trying to_ catch his breath. Michael was barely able to nod at him. Though it was getting colder by the second, they both had just run for fifteen minutes straight, so they were anything but cold.

"How the hell did they find us?" Michael asked, exasperated, still bent over trying to get his breath again, his words forming white puffs in the air. A storm was coming soon, the sky above them a dark gray. Max shook his head as if saying that he didn't know. It took him a few more seconds until he could breathe normally again.

"I wish I knew. At least it was just the two of us," Max said, looking back the way they had come, searching for any pursuers.

"You seriously think they don't know where Maria and the others are?" Michael's voice came harsh, in typical Michael fashion, but concern and hope were equally mixed on his face. They were standing on a deserted street in some industrial sector of the city, three store buildings and warehouses on every block. God, had they run.

"I think the man that spotted us just got lucky. As long as they stay at the motel, we all should be fine." Max was quiet for a second, almost as if he had heard something. "Liz is really worried about us," he said after a moment, his connection coming strong now that he was calming down.

"No kidding. Maria is going to crawl the walls any second now," Michael said, as he placed his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky, finally getting his breathing under control. Max smiled at Michael's words. It amused him to think what feeling Michael or Maria would be like if he could do it at the same level he could Liz. He had the distinct notion it would be like having an electric shock every single time.

Michael's body tensed.

It only took a fraction of a second, but Max didn't have to turn to look at what Michael was staring at to know they had not lost their pursuers. Next thing he knew, Michael had pretty much crashed on him in order to get him out of a shooter's aim, effectively throwing both of them behind high trash cans and discarded boxes.

Max impacted against the wall behind him, his left shoulder making a loud _thud_ sound, making him see stars for a second, as Michael almost knocked the air out of him. But besides the initial hit, he didn't register pain, adrenaline running through his body at light speed once more. The shots kept coming, though their sound was low as the shooters were using tranquilizers, not bullets. One dart hit barely inches from his foot.

"There's a sniper on the rooftop!" Michael said, as he gracelessly helped Max to his feet to run in the opposite direction. They were not going to make it, Max knew, if they kept running unprotected.

His green energy shield was more than a dead giveaway of their position, but Max would keep it up as long as he could until they reached the corner and could keep running out from the sniper's aim. It was difficult to concentrate and run, but Max found that multi-tasking wasn't that hard when he was running for his life.

The corner seemed impossibly far, and darts started bouncing off Max's shield. He could hear them, even if he wasn't turning around to look at them. He couldn't. He just couldn't let himself see them and think what they would mean if one hit him… they would trap him again, they would take him again, they would—

He turned the corner behind Michael, and let go an inner sigh of relief as his shield collapsed into itself. They kept running, of course, but at least now he had a sense that they would make it this time. They would disappear in this maze of buildings and warehouses, and be with his wife and the others before the storm hit.

Too late he saw the other agent coming from the other corner they had almost reached. Michael saw him first, being some six feet ahead of Max, and sent him flying with one movement of his hand as he bent over almost at the same time with a barely audible groan. It took Michael less than a second to pull the dart off his thigh and let it drop to the floor, the small object hardly making a sound as it hit the pavement. Michael had been hit, and the whole world stopped for Max.

He vaguely registered that the agent had been thrown away pretty far and that he wasn't getting up in pursuit. He moved towards his best friend, feeling as if everything were going in slow motion. Michael turned to look at him, their eyes locking, fear flashing in his eyes for a second, replacing it with determination as Max finally reached him to steady him.

"Run," Michael simply said, as if already giving in to his fate, his legs starting to give up on him.

"No," Max said as his brain raced trying to come up with an escape route. He couldn't lift Michael, put his shield up, and run. No, he had to think fast how to put an obstacle between them and the Unit, if not space. He took Michael's arm to support him, and faced the wall, finally coming up with a plan. He had no idea what was inside that building, or how much time he had to open a hole in that wall, but he was _sure_ they had to disappear now. There had been two agents shooting at them, and chances were they weren't alone.

"Maxwell! Get the hell out of here!" Michael said, anger filling his voice, by now his entire weight on Max. Max's left shoulder began to ache with the effort of keeping Michael up, the hit it had received only minutes before beginning to bruise. By tomorrow morning, his entire chest would display the force with which Michael had pushed him to the wall in the form of slightly purple marks.

"Like hell I am," Max said as he lifted his right hand, willing the molecules apart. Sweat broke in his forehead barely ten seconds after he had started, his muscles tensed and his attention divided between hearing if anyone else was coming and making the hole big enough for them to get through. The instant Michael finally collapsed, almost taking them both down, Max stopped opening the hole. It would do, Max briefly thought, his heart in his ears.

He half carried, half dragged Michael through the opening, the other side being a paper storage warehouse from what Max could see. They would search for them in here, Max knew, but maybe they still had time. He needed to hide Michael, and then to divert their attention from this place. As long as Michael was sedated, all Max could do was take them away from him and wait for his friend to wake up.

How long would that take? He didn't know, but he hoped it would be fast. He left Michael sitting against the wall, and started closing the hole they had come through just seconds before. God, he was feeling tired by now; between the shield and the hole and the 15 minute run… He pushed the thought aside. He had enough energy to get them both out of there, and that was all he would think about.

Wiping the sweat off his forehead with his long sleeve, Max finally nodded at the closed wall, confident that no one would notice that they had gone through the wall in this spot. He hadn't heard anything from the other side, and no one seemed to be in this place, it being a Sunday night with a snow storm closing in.

That worried Max. If they didn't hurry, they would be stuck in here until the weather would let them go. He knelt down beside Michael, wondering if he could wear out the sedative effects, helping Michael wake up faster.

The instant Max put his hand on Michael's shoulder, he knew something was wrong. He was barely breathing and his heart was going crazy.

"No!" Max said almost above a whisper, his connection intensifying as he started to mend things. What had they given Michael? Were they trying to kill them now? Why wouldn't they be using bullets then? It felt as if Michael's lungs were paralyzed, unable to inhale and exhale. As Max took a deep breath, he willed Michael's lungs to do the same, imagining he was breathing for both of them.

He kept doing that for minutes, though he wouldn't have been able to tell exactly for how long. He had to stop when he heard a door being opened somewhere at the other side of the warehouse. He fell on his back, panting, but relieved to see that Michael was breathing on his own. Now his only hope was to hide Michael and make them follow him. But where?

The answer came in the form of a huge roll of paper barely three feet from where he was. Although he was really tired at this precise moment, he knew he had to try out the idea that was taking form in his head. He stood up with some difficultly, but keeping quiet so he could hear any possible sound. If someone had indeed entered, he –or they- was being really quiet now.

Getting to the roll, Max placed both hands in front of him, almost touching the paper. Molecules moved away, opening a gap through the sheets of rolled paper, the process much easier here than with the wall, which was thicker. The idea was to hide Michael inside the roll, nestling him as best as he could, and closing the gap again. Once Michael woke up, he would be able to get himself out of there. Maybe the paper wouldn't survive Michael's energy, Max thought with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, but at least his friend would have a chance.

Compared to opening gaps through paper, dragging Michael inside was anything but easy. By now, Max was certain at least two people were inside the building, muffled sounds echoing in the warehouse. He started to think about what he was going to do as he made more room inside the roll to set Michael as comfortably as possible. He thought about staying here with Michael, but he knew the agents wouldn't give up until they found a trail.

And a trail Max would give them. They couldn't possibly know where Max had taken Michael –maybe they didn't even know Michael had been hit- so there were at least six places in this block where they could have vanished into. Good.

He stepped aside and started mending the paper back together, the process much slower now than before, but Max didn't let that stop him. So what if he was tired, he still could manage a trick or two. By now his shirt was clammy with sweat on his back, and once he finished closing the roll, he had to wipe the sweat off his forehead again.

"You're going to be all right," Max whispered, more for his own benefit than Michael's. Giving the roll one last glance as he turned to his right, Max started searching for an escape route. Though the place was a maze of paper walls, the "emergency exit" signs were very clear to find. How ironic he couldn't follow them. All he wanted to do was to reach the wall at his right and make an exit through it, hoping to cross the street and make it into the next building unnoticed. Maybe the storm would become his ally, he thought, being that the agents wouldn't be able to follow him for much longer.

It was an unexpected relief when he saw a door in the wall in front of him, the sign reading "CARGO" in big red letters impossible to miss even from 25 feet away. It would mean he wouldn't have to make yet another hole in the wall, saving his energy. But it would also mean that someone might be waiting for him to come out. He would have to gamble on this one. He was too tired right now to fully use his powers, and opening the wall would mean he wouldn't be able to put up his shield in defense if he needed to.

Something embedded itself in a roll of paper Max had at his left. Something small. It took him less than a second to recognize the dart. At 15 feet from the door, Max spun around with his shield up to face the agent that was shooting at him.

The agent took aim, wide eyed, but didn't shoot. As Max walked backwards as fast as he could, the agent kept walking towards him, both silent, both looking at each other as if they were locked in that position.

Okay. It didn't matter. He would reach the door, open it, drop the shield and seal the doorknob once on the other side. The agent would call for reinforcements, of course, but at least Max would be out, running for the next building, and just waiting for the storm. By the time the agents would be able to hunt him down again, he would be rested. And God, he needed the rest.

He was probably less than 3 feet from the doorknob when he felt it. The intense, sharp pain on his left shoulder numbed him in an instant, his shield dropping at the sheer shock of having been shot from the side. He lost his balance backwards, not even able to turn to look at the agent who had shot him coming at him from the hallway at his left, his eyes still looking at the man he had in front.

His right hand landed on the doorknob as Max was trying to find purchase and stop his fall, but all he remembered from that moment was the agent's eyes narrowing at him, finally firing the shot he had been holding from the moment Max had put up his shield.

Max didn't really feel the impact of the second dart as his legs gave out and he fell on his back against the door.

_Run!_ Max thought, as if Michael could hear him right now, the agent in front of him walking carefully towards him, the gun still aimed at his body. _Run Michael! When you wake up, don't let them catch you… don't let them… just… run... _

* * *

The call came at 3:33 a.m.

Dr. Peter Shore noticed because it was an odd number, and everything and anything odd had always held his interest. He should be sleepy, he thought, since he hadn't been sleeping well for the past three days, but he couldn't have been more alert.

It had been more then seven hours since Max had escaped, and Shore's mind was going on and on about the things he should've done, or said, or shown, or whatever else he could think of. He should've convinced Michael when he had the chance, but gosh, he had never seen such feral eyes before.

Now he was on the phone with the latest report. At least four potential leads had come out of their search, all of them related to the train derailment hospitals or shelters. Too many people were out there, too much ground to cover. It wasn't hard to imagine Max easily being mistaken for a victim or something, lying in some hospital bed.

But would they risk it? That was the main question here. Michael knew –or at least had been told- that Max needed medical attention, but that didn't mean that the group was going to agree. Or that they didn't have means of their own to heal Max properly. God, he hoped so.

Reports were vague at best about what these kids could or couldn't do with their "special" abilities. Those reports were conflicting at best, and ever since the Army had taken the project under its wing after the "graduation fiasco", the little information the remaining agents from the FBI Special Unit had given seemed more biased than anything else.

It was hard to believe that four days ago he had been so blissfully ignorant of the moronic ways his taxes were being spent, but now that he was deep into this mission/project/unit/whatever, he just couldn't let it go.

He hung up the phone, the agent on the other side promising to update him as soon as they got any positive identification. Half of him wanted to warn the agent that not all the gods in history would help him if he approached Max while Michael was guarding him, but he guessed the agent already knew.

Oh, what a mess he was in. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he still had had a rather simple life. It wasn't hard at all to relive in his mind what had happened a little over 72 hours ago, the room he was in vanishing from his mind's eye, his own room back home taking its place. . .

.  
. . . _"Hello?" a sleepy Peter Shore answered the phone. It was close to midnight_,and he had had one of those days that had made him crawl into bed way before 7 p.m., wishing the world away. The storm that had been threatening the city still menaced the sky, not one single snowflake having fallen.

"Lieutenant Colonel Shore?" an expressionless voice asked. For one second, Shore had thought he was dreaming. He had been retired from the Army for four years now, and he had no plans on going back. Besides, it was the middle of the night, so it _had_ to be a dream.

"Retired," he automatically answered, not really knowing why. He was barely shaking the sleep off when the same voice said, "Just a minute, sir."

_Sir._ Oh yeah, that darned little word that had been stuck in his mind for twenty years, like a reflex that he couldn't shake off. But he _had_ shaken it off, he had finished his military career and had pursued other interests. It only took a couple of seconds for someone to be back on the line.

"Pete, you better be awake and dressed in two minutes."

"Bill?"

Well, actually, it was Lieutenant Colonel William Anders, but for at least 15 years of those 20, they had been close friends, had served together on more missions than either wanted to count. Yet somewhere in those long years, they had gone their separate ways, even if they still kept in touch. Bill had had a way with words, and had ended up being a diplomat of some sort. When things got rough, Bill would be there to smooth things over without shooting one single bullet. He was an odd soldier, really; a peacemaker with a gun.

Peter, instead, had joined the medical corps. He was actually pretty fond of the Red Cross band that used to hang on his arm, always alert to that dreaded call of _Medic!_ in the middle of the battlefield.

"I mean it, Pete. We're two miles from your place, I need you ASAP." Bill hung up. Peter blinked. Still holding the phone to his ear, still shaking off the cobwebs of sleep, Peter Shore looked at nothing, trying to decide if he was really dreaming or not.

When his doorbell rang two minutes and twenty-three seconds later, Shore was more than relieved to know he had guessed right –he _had_ been awake and not dreaming, and was now dressed and ready to go- but half of him was dreading what this midnight call could mean. What on Earth could Bill want with him?

The young soldier saluted when he opened the door, and out of habit, he did the same, both walking quickly to the car waiting outside. Obviously, these people meant business, and fast.

"I'm sure I'm going to regret this," Shore said as he sat beside a troubled looking Bill, who smiled at him.

"I'm sure you won't," he enigmatically said, as they shook hands. It had been more than a couple of years since they had seen each other in the flesh, and no amount of e-mailing could ever make up for the lack of personal contact.

The car was already moving and half a mile away from Shore's house by the time Bill opened the manila folder he had in his lap. "I'm sure the midnight nature of our meeting pretty much spells 'Sensitive Information' to you, so let's skip formalities," Bill began, making it obvious whatever Peter was going to see was not meant for anyone else's eyes.

"In 1947, an alien space craft did crash in Roswell, New Mexico," Bill continued, by now passing Shore the first of many pictures, this one of a debris field.

What came next was a slide show of almost sixty years of cover-ups, chases, shapeshifters, silver handprints and corpses. When the Army had lost its second prisoner in 1950, everyone thought things would go quiet. Except 10 years later the FBI formed its "Special Unit", chasing at least one known alien across the country.

"They claimed the aliens were invaders, colonizers, and the little green men did leave a trail behind them," Anders said, showing Shore a black and white picture of a corpse with a handprint on its chest.

They had been driving for almost half an hour now, yet Peter had no idea why Bill was telling him this, especially since he was now a civilian, or how he was going to help. Or better yet, where the hell were they going?

"They thought they finally got one of them in 2000," Bill said, searching for the right picture to give.

"They _thought_?" Shore asked, finally taking his eyes off the corpse picture, wondering how these beings could generate the energy to pretty much cook a person alive, hardly leaving any trace behind.

Anders gave him another black and white picture. The young man that stared back at him had a small smile that didn't quite show his teeth, bangs of hair over his forehead, clear but somehow guarded eyes.

"This was a school picture from about four years ago," Bill was saying, still shuffling pictures on his lap.

"This being of yours disguised itself as a student?" Shore asked, amused. If he had been living for fifty years in enemy territory, and had the ability to disguise as anyone, would a teenage form throw his pursuers off?

Bill humorlessly chuckled. "It would have made my life easier, knowing what I know now," he mused, without giving any further explanation. Taking another picture, this one being a surveillance shot, it showed the same young man coming out of a building. Peter had to do a double take when he saw the billboard proudly displaying "UFO Center". Now _tha_t was a good disguise.

"No, the kid you see in these pictures is not 'that being of mine'. His name is Max Evans, he was an honor student at Roswell High, employee of the UFO Center, beloved son and... husband," Bill said, taking one more picture out, this time of Evans with a pretty girl, as they were coming out of a movie theater.

"An awfully young husband," Peter quietly remarked. "So, why is he interesting?" Shore asked, the car speeding down the freeway as he absently scanned the night outside. That snow storm was due any second now, so he hoped they were really close to their destination.

"Because Mr. Max Evans is also a '47 survivor. You see, he's not exactly an alien, he just has enough of both sides to make him a hybrid."

Suddenly, his remark about an "awfully young husband" didn't seem so accurate. His interest was immediately 100% there.

It actually took them another half an hour before they started to slow down, the car going through the city now, tall buildings looking imposing. By then Dr. Peter Shore had a short recount of events, starting with Max saving his future wife, continuing with his detention and interrogation, his escape, the Special Unit's disbandment and subsequent reunion. Their suspicions that Evans wasn't alone wouldn't have any substantial ground for a couple of years.

Though the Army had kept the spaceship, it wasn't until another UFO crashed two years before, and its survivor fled, that the Army had turned its sights towards finding an alien being again.

Funny how the alien being actually found them first... and blew up a base. Things got really heated after that, especially with the careless retaliation the base's Commander had taken. Now the Army had taken over the Special Unit, and had been re-evaluating its data for the past year and a half. The chase was still on; the six kids in the last picture Shore had seen being wanted for more than just questioning.

"Bill, my friend, you've been keeping a lot of stuff in your basement," Peter said, trying to process all this information while he still had absolutely no idea why he had been told all this, big pieces of this puzzle still missing. He looked again at one of the black and white pictures of the young man, this time accompanied by his sister and friend. How did Bill know Max Evans was a '47 survivor? Any of them? If he wasn't a shapeshifter, then he looked awfully young, indeed, for a 50-something guy.

Bill stopped shuffling pictures –apparently, there were still some to show-, and seriously turned to look at him. "I was debriefed a couple of hours ago while I was boarding a plane in Washington. I'm actually waiting for someone to come out of the shadows and laugh at both of us for having swallowed such a story."

"Wait, you were coming from the airport when you picked me up?"

Anders smiled. "You were always the sharpest of us all, Pete. I can hardly believe I'm here myself."

"Why are you in this mess? And why am _I_ in this mess, too?"

"Because as of six hours ago, this tale got messier than anyone could have imagined," Bill said in a rather ominous voice. The little hairs at the back of Peter's neck stood up, and somehow, he knew he wasn't going to like where this was going. Not one bit.

Bill pulled one last picture out of the manila folder. This time, it was a standard surveillance camera photo, from a store at a mall, it seemed. Max and… Michael? Yeah, Michael, they were both in the picture. The date and hour printed at the bottom clearly showed that it had been taken less than ten hours ago.

They both had changed from the first pictures Peter had seen. They had grown up, it was clear, and not exactly on the easy side of life. But even if they now looked like young adults, there was still an easy pose. They were quietly laughing at something they were looking at out of the camera's reach.

"You know where they are," Shore stated.

"I know where _one_ of them is," Anders corrected. "There's where we're going right now."

"Why do they want a diplomat and an internist to go meet him?" Peter looked down at the picture again, almost sure that the one they were going to meet was Max. Bill had way too much information on him for this whole thing to be centered on Michael.

"Surveillance picked up this photograph, and a group in the area was dispatched. Half an hour later, they ambushed them in the industrial sector, though Michael seemed to vanish into thin air. Agents Walker and Cooper caught up with Max, and both fired at him – tranquilizer darts."

_Like a wild animal,_ Shore reflected for a second, as a more urgent thought came, "They _both_ hit him?" Anders nodded.

"The doses were fairly low; the idea was to slow them down," Bill said, as he opened a folder that had been waiting by his other side. "It didn't really work that way."

The folder contained two lonely faxed pages of rapidly scrawled handwriting, medical terms here and there. Whoever had written this, he –or she- had been in a big hurry. Shore's eyes read through it all with the expertise all doctors seemed to develop to understand the handwriting of their fellow colleagues.

A respiratory arrest and 8 different drugs later, they had managed to stabilize and wake Evans two hours after his capture. His current stats were at the bottom. And that was all there was in those pages. No blood work information, no pending test results that were being done at the moment the pages had been sent, nothing.

"They don't seem to be having any more trouble," Peter dryly said, knowing full well half of the important information was being left out. Maybe someone was paranoid these pages would fall into the wrong hands. "So, I still don't get what they want with us."

"The first time Max Evans was detained, he was rescued by his friends less than 24 hours later. Up until this minute, we don't know how he was found. We suspect that the serum that was administered to block his special abilities is not completely effective, and that some sort of telepathy remains. This time around, we don't want to run any risks."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it is priority one to move the prisoner out of the state. Or, rather, it _was_ priority one. When they woke him up, Max was not stable enough to be moved, but awake enough for interrogatory procedures to begin. Just your basic questioning. Boy, were they in for a surprise."

Bill paused, looking out of the window at the snow finally falling. "They told me it could all be a lie, but Max was barely conscious enough to think straight, let alone spin a tale so complicated." Bill's eyes turned to Peter's. "Our honor student, beloved husband and son, is actually a political refugee from far, far away." Shore stared at him, Bill slightly chuckled, "He's the freaking king of an entire planet, and it turns out that fifty years ago two of his bodyguards died and two were held by us, while he and the royal family had been hidden in a pod somewhere. That part is still unclear."

Now it was becoming very obvious why they both were here.

"He's still not stable, is he?" Shore asked, while Bill muttered something about needing a drink.

"We wish. The United States government is now responsible for the well being of Antar's once and future king. There's a civil war, and the tale comes complete with a usurper, and four other _planets_ in the mix. If Max Evans dies under our care, and next week or next century someone from there comes looking for him, what do you think we're going to look like? My God, these people can travel through space, create hybrids and shapeshift. What chance would we have?"

"So they called you to mediate between us and…"

"And Max. Once he's well. By the time I got out of the plane he wasn't improving one bit. That's where you come in. You were close, you have the expertise, and from the moment you stepped in the car, you had the clearance. You already know how the game is played. It was out of the question to bring a civilian into this whole mess." They stared at each other for a whole minute, almost as if confirming that the other was accepting this was the truth.

"I think I need a drink, too," Peter quietly said, the whole reality of it hitting him as the car finally stopped. They had arrived at their destination, and suddenly all he could think about was _Run!_ _Run away from this whole thing while you can. Away from the Army, away from the government, and away from their alien conspiracies. _

Oh, what a mess he was in.


	8. ICU

**Chapter 7  
ICU  


* * *

**

Movement.

Somewhere.

Around. A shadow at the edge of his consciousness. He wasn't sure if it was real. He wasn't sure of anything, really. Max was trying to hold on to something that would anchor him to reality, but this shadow was making him nervous. It made him feel observed.

He shivered. It was unintentional, but it was the anchor he was looking for. He was waking up, the last four or five days being a blurry composition of fear and barely remembered words. He had no idea where he was or what was going on. He felt heavy, and cold, and exhausted.

And still observed.

The feeling wouldn't go away, and so he half opened his eyes, his aching body making him take things easy. Slowly. In fact, he wasn't moving at all; it would have required too much of an effort. The room was dim, and everything was diffuse around him. It was an unfamiliar room, but he was used to waking up in motel rooms by now. Yet he felt uneasy, almost… trapped.

A shadow moved at his left, but trying to focus on it didn't do much. Nothing was sharpening in his sight, no matter how hard he tried. Another shiver went down his back, making him close his eyes.

Even if he wasn't looking at it, he knew the shadow was getting closer.

"Do you remember Phoenix?"

It was just a whisper, a woman's voice that he didn't recognize. Her voice was eager, even if a little fearful. It was back to questions again, he thought, trying to remember why he was there and why he should be careful about Phoenix. Nothing made sense. Nothing was coming into focus.

_What's your name?_ the question echoed in his mind, but somehow, he knew it was from before. Another room, another time… another shadow.

"Were you there?" the whispered voice asked again, focusing Max's thoughts in finding that single answer about Phoenix. They had been in so many places by now, he couldn't even tell where he was anymore. But something about Phoenix sounded important. Like some sort of highlight he shouldn't forget. Something had happened in Phoenix, hadn't it?

_You have another name… an alien name… What is it? _the echoes continued. Max ignored them. He had already answered them. Phoenix. Had he been in Phoenix?

"Yes…" Max finally said, his answer still incomplete in his own head. He _had_ gone to Phoenix, some cold night. He had gone because… because…

"Did you heal them?"

Images exploded in his mind. Two girls, three boys, all lying on their beds looking asleep, but not really sleeping… All sick, Max remembered now, all sick, and he couldn't leave them like that.

"They were… sick… they were… kids…" Max answered, his voice a bit raspy, his throat dry again. He tried to half open his eyes once more, tried to make sense of the shadow that was now by his left side. It was a slender, not so petite woman, her hair knotted in a pony tail, her hands in her doctor's white coat pockets. She smelled nice, Max noticed, and she seemed frightened about something. Like she didn't want to be there, or was afraid someone would catch her in the room.

_Why are you here? What is your plan? _he tried to shut the voice out. It was hard enough to concentrate on the new questions as it was.

"You really healed them?" she insisted, her voice still a whisper, but this time there was an urgency to it, a need for him to answer. _Just like them_, Max absently thought, half remembering the other voices that had been questioning him not so long ago. All urgent, all needing his answers.

He nodded twice and then stopped as he shivered again. He was getting cold once more, and he wondered where his mom had left the other comforter. But he wasn't at home, was he?

"Why?" she asked with the same urgency as before, pushing away Max's thoughts about home. He concentrated on Phoenix. Had he been cold in Phoenix? It had been a cold night, yes, it had been raining. He remembered the smell of the wet road and the feeling of the humid air.

He remembered a cold night at the palace, Antar's three moons shining brightly, the whole world so full of possibility and—

"I need to know why," she said, shattering his memory, getting even closer to him, her hands still in her pockets. He couldn't see her very clearly in the dim light, but he thought she looked worried.

"How could… I not?" he answered, thinking about Liz in her room, getting ready for midnight service, looking so beautiful. "They were… sick. I could… heal them…" It was difficult to speak, and it was getting difficult to breathe too. He shivered yet again and he closed his eyes. He needed to get warm.

"But _how_? How do you heal them?" the voice chased him into the darkness, one of those questions that he couldn't really answer. It was just natural to him, like walking or writing. He just knew how to do it.

"_How?_" she asked one last time, this time her hand grabbing his arm, maybe to focus him on her demand, maybe just to let him know she was really there. Whatever the case, the instant she touched him he couldn't stop the connection from forming.

It was seeping his energy just as fast as the cold was taking over his body. He wasn't getting anything from her, and he couldn't let go since she was the one grabbing him and not the other way around.

He couldn't move.

He panicked.

He shivered one last time as an intense beeping started somewhere at his left. She had let go of his arm, and for that, he was relieved. The last thing he vaguely saw was that other people were coming into the room, and the last thing he heard was the woman's voice, anything but a whisper now, practically shouting to them, _Don't touch him!_

And then all was dark.

* * *

Dr. Susan Lake's night was stretching for far too long. At 4:00 a.m., the sun couldn't come any sooner to end it, maybe then taking all this nonsense away as well. The idea that some bizarre _Twilight Zone_ had taken over the hospital for the past eight hours had never felt more real than now, when she was standing here, in front of the mystery man with the glowing handprints, and for one instant the young pediatrician really considered that this whole thing was just one gigantic weird dream.

But of course, she was awake. And he wasn't.

Dr. Hayden had sent her the picture from Phoenix via e-mail less than an hour ago, and she had had little doubt that one of the two young men in it was the same guy she had seen Dr. Holt admitting into the ER right when the first ambulance had arrived. Not to mention that two hours after that, she had practically yelled her lungs out right in his face when she had thought he had harmed a little girl.

It had taken her no small amount of detective work, and overhearing dozens of nurse conversations to finally find the John Doe Dr. McConnell had attended at the ER. There were so many unidentified patients in the hospital right now, that being in this room was nothing short of a miracle. But she knew that finding it had been the right decision.

She wasn't sure what exactly she wanted to accomplish. She knew she wanted to know if little Sarah Meyer was going to be okay. She also wanted to know if the five kids in Phoenix had been truly healed. She needed to know how someone could -seemingly- heal with a touch. But most of all, she was dying to know why had this stranger healed -or attempted to heal- all these children. Why had he risked so much... or rather, what exactly was he risking to begin with?

And could he heal more kids?

She had actually found where he was twenty minutes ago, right when he was being returned to his room in the ICU from an MRI. She had been surprised to see Dr. Cramer there, since she had told the cardiologist about what she had seen barely two hours ago. She actually felt a little hurt and betrayed. Something was going on, and it was no coincidence that Nikolas Cramer was quietly talking with McConnell and Holt as they settled in their patient.

Didn't nurses have to do that? And why hadn't he told her he had found her mystery man?

Oh yeah, her three male colleagues were hiding something, and something big. By the time they had left the room, undoubtedly on some emergency call from one of the dozens of victims, Susan hadn't known how exactly to proceed.

What was she expecting to find, anyway? And what exactly was she going to say? It wasn't as if the guy hadn't done a truly remarkable thing… A Christmas miracle indeed. That was, of course, assuming that all was pure and white intentions. But what if he had had far less altruistic motives? What if what he did was dangerous like Cramer had first said? And the three doctors must have had their doubts as well, if they were all pretty much hiding the man in that room.

So she had entered with silent steps, and had remained in the shadows of the room, biting her lower lip, trying to decide what to do. It wasn't difficult, actually, since the man was unconscious, so all she was doing was staring at him. What was wrong with him?

Deciding to check for herself -and in the process making a plausible alibi as to why she was here, "just checking on a patient"- Susan had left her shadowy corner and fully entered the room. She hadn't taken two steps before he started to stir. She doubted he would stay awake, and it took her a split second to decide that, if he was up to it, she was at least going to get some answers.

His answers didn't make much sense. She knew he was trying, he just needed to try harder. She barely got a handful of words out of him when she felt he was slipping away into unconsciousness again. She grabbed his arm to get his attention back, and that was the instant that her whole world was turned upside down.

Images flashed in her mind, bright, loud, fast and very much unstoppable, none making sense individually, but completing a very grand scheme as a whole. She had asked him how he healed, and he was _showing_ her. She was there, with him, healing those children at Phoenix. Shouts and knocks at the door mixed up with far away sounds, boys' and girls' faces merged with those of teens, and the ever present fear of discovery twirled with the fear of failure. He was going to heal those children, even if something inside him _knew_ that it would cost him dearly to spend so much energy at once.

He was risking his life, and those of his friends, the teens she had seen. Those who were like him, but not _exactly_ like him, making him the only one with the ability to heal. And it drained him. Oh, how much it drained him to place his hand on their little bodies, pouring out his whole essence, instinctively searching and mending what was wrong. He was sweating, and dizzy, and warm, but all he could think about was that he had to reach the next kid before it was too late.

Other images circled around Susan's mind. Images about running through streets, and hiding someone. About a bright place and endless questions. About voices that urged him to run, and others to stay calm. And through it all, she felt his confusion and disorientation. Who was she? Where was he? And at last, as she saw him fainting after healing the last kid, she felt his panic. She was taking away his energy just as surely as healing did, but he had no control over it. He didn't understand what was happening, but she did. She was holding his arm. She was making something he thought of as a "connection", except he wasn't seeing anything, and didn't know that she was.

She let him go. She couldn't have been grabbing his arm for more than ten seconds, but it had felt as if she had seen in real time everything he had done in Phoenix, right with snatches of the last few days, or maybe few months. She didn't have time to contemplate it as the monitors' alarms went off. In her haste to get answers, she had failed to check the chart. As long as he had been stable, she hadn't cared to find out what was wrong with him.

Now that was the central thought of her entire being, as his heart rate reached 192 beats per minute. He was going to have a heart attack any second now, and all because she had touched him. She froze for a second, not knowing what she should do, random bits of information about what she had just seen going through her mind. She knew he wasn't human, but she didn't know what he really was either. Most importantly of all, she knew she couldn't risk touching him.

As footsteps sounded behind her, she twirled around to say exactly that.

"Don't touch him!"

It was Dr. Cramer, practically skidding into the room, his big baby blue eyes going round at seeing her there. She thought he looked as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Are you all right?" he asked, now slowly walking to his patient and her. "Did he hurt you?"

The alarms were still going, and Susan found it surreal that they were both standing there, not really hurrying in helping the man in the bed. Funny, she had seen into his darkest fears, yet she still didn't know his name. "No!" she exclaimed, turning once again to look at the monitors, "_I_ hurt him. If you touch him, you'll hurt him too."

It sounded crazy. In fact, it _was_ crazy, and she knew he was thinking the same thing when she saw him frowning, moving past her to get a better look at the monitors. "We've been touching him all night long, it didn't seem to hurt him one bit." And then, he cursed.

A nurse was entering the room in response to the alarms. Cramer turned around without losing another second, "Bring Dr. McConnell here, now!" Then, turning to look at Susan, he said, "Get me the cooling blankets."

She did as she was told, glancing as Cramer went to the crash cart. She returned with the blankets and the ice packs as he was inserting the needle he had taken out of the cart into the IV. He hadn't touched the man so far, and for that she was relieved. Her main concern now was his temperature, and she turned to look at the thermometer: 103.1. Cooling blankets might be a little bit too much, she thought, but right before her eyes she saw the numbers changing: 103.7. 104.1. 104.4.

"What the hell—" Susan said, cooling blankets frozen in midair. She had never seen a piece of equipment malfunctioning so badly, and with such ill timing.

"It gets down as fast," Cramer said as he practically snatched the blankets out of her inert hands, "_if_ we manage to get it down, that is…" he corrected himself.

It was insane. Fragments of the things she'd seen and felt were still swirling in her mind right now, but she hadn't been able to process any of it. For one moment, she thought she knew, that she understood what Cramer was saying; that it was somehow expected that their patient's temperature would rise so fast. And then she lost that idea, and thought that it was crazy. Completely and utterly crazy.

Even the certainty that this man wasn't really a man didn't make things right. A body's temperature couldn't go up and down like that, the fact that touching someone shouldn't make connections either conveniently forgotten for the moment.

"What are you talking about?" Susan said, rooted to the place, seeing how Nikolas was breaking the ice packets, cold water splashing over their patient's chest. The cardiac alarm was slowing down thanks to whatever drug Cramer had chosen to give this man, but his temperature was not giving an inch.

"Your mystery man has more than just one mystery going on," Nikolas humorlessly said, "Give me a hand, will you?" he said, indicating with a movement of his head that she should help him with the blankets.

"I don't want to touch him," she practically whined, afraid that she would take more energy out of him.

"What's going on?" It was McConnell's voice this time, approaching the bed. He hadn't skidded like Cramer, but he hadn't been far from it.

"Nothing you'd like," Cramer answered, not even turning around, all his concentration on placing the blankets. "BP 160/100, T104.7, HT 120—" His eyes widened as he stopped in midsentence. Their non-human patient was trying to wake up. His eyelids were fighting to open.

McConnell went past her to him, and she was _sure_ the older doctor would touch the young man.

"Wait!" she said as she finally moved from her spot, making Cramer turn to look at her as he too understood what she was trying to say.

"Don't touch him!" they both said at the same time, McConnell literally –and rather comically- freezing in midair.

"You'll hurt him," Susan started to explain, but she never got past that. Her "mystery man" finally opened his eyes and all but lurched forward as if he were trying to jump out of the bed and start running towards the door.

It didn't matter if they were going to hurt him. He was going to hurt himself if they didn't stop him. And it took them less than a fraction of a second to realize that. Both Cramer and McConnell tackled the man back into the bed as all three men struggled with each other.

"They're taking the palace!" the man yelled, fighting with a strength Susan would have believed impossible just a minute before. She ran to the crash cart in search of an Ativan dose to sedate him.

"Max! Max! It's okay! No one is taking anything!" McConnell practically yelled back, and it occurred to Susan that his name had always been right there, at the tip of her tongue. Max. She found the Ativan and went for the IV. 2mg would be enough.

"They're coming for me," Max said in a rather menacing low voice, his eyes set on the door as if the two men holding him down were not really there. His right hand was outstretched over McConnell's shoulder. All this Susan noticed by the corner of her eye, and as she injected the clear drug, she heard a low _thud_ from behind her.

She turned for a second, and had to do a double take. Dr. Holt was pinned against the wall some six feet from the bed, papers floating to the floor. He had been entering the room just two seconds before. Now he was struggling against the invisible force that held him in place, his face turning red as it became obvious to Susan that he wasn't breathing.

And she knew exactly why.

She turned to look at Max, and she too stopped breathing. His outstretched hand was sending the energy that was pinning Holt to the wall, alright, but on his forehead there were five shining blue dots, forming a V. His elaborate breathing started to dwindle as the drug began to take effect.

"Jesus, he's strong…" Cramer muttered beside her, both he and McConnell practically throwing their weight at Max to keep him on the bed, oblivious to their colleague right behind them.

Max finally lost the grip on Holt, who promptly slid to the floor and started coughing. Susan ran to him, her mind conflicted with what was happening. Max had been using telekinesis like some sort of Jedi using the _Force_, and though she knew this to be true, she also knew it couldn't be.

"It's okay Max, it's okay…" she heard McConnell say as she went to her knees in front of Holt, who was getting his air back. "No one is going to hurt you."

_No_, Susan thought, _but who's to say he won't hurt us? _

And suddenly, being in that room didn't seem like the right decision anymore.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel William Anders was not having a good day. In fact, he hadn't had a good day all week long, and things were just getting worse.

His old friend and mighty doctor, Peter Shore, had humorlessly said that alien biology was one huge gigantic headache. Anders had answered that alien politics were way beyond that. _You'll lose a patient. I might lose the entire nation._

Anders took a deep breath. His nerves were tense, but things weren't lost yet. Granted, they _had_ lost Max, but their fugitive king was not dead. God, he truly hoped he was not dead.

Funny how that thought had been with him for the past four days. _Please don't die_. It was a shameless plea to a being that couldn't listen to him and that had nothing to do with Anders' concern for Max's wellbeing, and everything to do with gaining information.

It was all that mattered to Anders right now. What had always mattered to him. The entire diplomatic world revolved around what one knew about when, where, what, and who. Right now he had one version of events, and Washington was still recalling the remaining Special Unit Agents that had actually been at the Eagle Rock Base when Max had been captured the first time around.

There was so much conflicting information from all parties that all the Tylenols in the world were not going to help him with his headache. And by the looks of Shore beside him, he was thinking exactly the same thing.

They were both submerged in piles of files, information from the past four days as from the past fifty years becoming one messy blur. They were still collecting data on everything they could put their hands on about the crash, its survivors and the kids of present day, a not so easy endeavor when it meant collecting information from the Army, the Air Force and the FBI.

He could still see it in his head so clearly: Shore's eyes as they had arrived at their destination, clearly thinking, _What the hell am I doing here?_ And then turning to look at him, his gazed had changed to _What are you dragging me into?_

Anders' mind got lost in that moment, the fatigue of the last four days threatening to take over, as both men were waiting for news that Max had been found. How could it be that someone that Anders hadn't known about less than a week ago had become so important now? The whole thing was surreal: Aliens, royalty, civil war… a crash, survivors, hybrids… Now he was in the middle of a secret facility trying to find the truth beneath mountains of paper, as if he were somehow going to find it highlighted in yellow in some lucky report.

Besides, this place gave him the creeps. Which was appropriate, Anders reflected, because just as Max, it didn't look like what it truly was. And just as he had recalled in perfect detail Shore's expression when they had arrived, he could now recall those first hours when they had actually entered their so deceptive headquarters four days ago . . .

.  
. . . _The car had stopped outside where Max was being held without making_ a sound, neither of the two men knowing how events would unfold in the next 96 hours.

The warehouse had seen better days. At one point, it had been light gray, but now big chunks of paint were falling off, giving it a kaleidoscopic mix of blacks, grays, blues, and even some reds. The coppery glimmer of oxidation was everywhere, and letters that had once formed coherent words were now half erased by time and too obscured by night for either Anders or Shore to distinguish them. Not even the flickering yellow lights that were scattered around could make the place look inviting.

It was in the middle of a wide parking lot, the next building being half a mile away, also looking very abandoned. In fact, most of the places around looked –and actually were- abandoned. It somehow seemed that not even rats would venture near it. That nothing was alive in there. The stillness of the entire scene, even with the snow falling, gave it a forbidden look.

It was a damned good disguise.

The two soldiers that had silently ridden with them stepped outside first and opened the car doors, saluting as both men came outside. If Shore found it annoying, he didn't show it.

He couldn't really fault Shore for not noticing. Anders had just dropped one hell of a bombshell on his friend. One that Anders had had barely hours to digest himself. The chill wind slapped their faces as if to wake them up. It was with a strange hesitation that Anders made the fist move towards the place. Yes, there had been an alien space craft that crashed in Roswell, New Mexico. Yes, one of its survivors was inside that place. And yes, whatever happened, it would have grave consequences for the future of the planet.

Talk about pressure.

"There doesn't seem to be much security," Shore stated. He always had had an eye for tactical plans: How to enter and how to exit a place. It looked like the soldier in him was very much alive and kicking.

"We're lucky we could actually get this place," Anders explained. "The mission was to take the prisoner out of the state, remember?" Shore nodded once as they both kept moving forward, one soldier in front, one taking the rear, "When it became obvious he couldn't be moved, we needed a medical facility with enough clearance to keep this a quiet operation."

"So, the middle of nowhere became important. Do they even have first aid kits in that place?" The wind blew rather harshly, making both men hide their hands in their pockets.

"They are fully equipped, actually. In fact, this place is just as secret as the patient inside it, and as isolated as we needed it. And, most importantly, the timing couldn't be better. The project that was taking place there cleared out last week, though minimum personnel were left behind. They were going to start cleaning out by the end of this month when the next project would have taken over."

"Hence, the low security," Shore remarked, the group of four men now a few feet from the main entrance.

"With Max out cold and the storm coming, Washington felt we could manage. We'll move him as soon as we can. The Pentagon is waiting for our briefings to decide where."

The soldier walking in front reached the door and slid a white card. Maybe the place didn't have much manpower but, as they would discover a few minutes later, entering it was no piece of cake.

At first sight, it was, indeed, an abandoned warehouse. Nothing inside but ruined walls, bare concrete columns and a dirty floor. Dirty, but not dusty, Anders noticed. No footprints or any trace that about six hours before their most valuable prisoner had been rushed into this place.

The dim yellow light from outside gave form to strange shadows as they kept walking. The real entrance was in the middle. Anders wouldn't have known it was the entrance had the two soldiers that were pretty much sandwiching them had not stopped at attention at a seemingly random point. The floor moved downwards. A nine by nine foot section, to be specific, taking all four men to an underworld of halls, labs, offices and rooms. And one alien king.

They descended about two floors. They went from almost absolute darkness to stark whiteness as the lateral wall moved sideways. More soldiers met them, four of them, along with Colonel Harrington, the Head of the Special Unit for the last year.

Jurisdiction was a tricky thing that the Army was trying to sidestep by "joining" forces with the FBI. Agents were still in the field, not soldiers, but it certainly was not an FBI Agent who was running the show. If any information was gained from the operations of the Unit, Anders doubted that the FBI would get its hands on much of it, or its uses.

"Lieutenant Colonel. Doctor." Harrington acknowledged each with a nod, as Anders and the privates who were accompanying them saluted. He saluted in response. "This way."

If there was any saving grace in this whole mess, it was Harrington. Anders had not worked with the man himself, but had heard very high praise from colleagues and others in the trade, good things to have in mind. Still, to have good references was half the game. It was now the Lieutenant Colonel's turn to judge.

If references were accurate though, Colonel Harrington was the quiet, practical kind. With almost six feet, broad shoulders and an intense gray stare, the man was quite frankly an intimidating sight. He liked well achieved results, was realistic about obstacles, and had a cool mind when things were literally exploding around him. With no family of his own, he had dedicated his entire life to his country, climbing the ropes of the Army to the high point where he was now. He believed in order and the chain of command, and because of that sole fact, Anders knew Harrington was not exactly happy to have a civilian walking in his –provisional- headquarters. Even if that civilian had been a Lieutenant Colonel not so long ago himself. Maybe that was the only reason the Colonel had accepted Shore in the first place.

"How's he doing?" Shore asked as soon as they started walking.

"My technicians tell me he's been stable for the last hour, but they're nervous about the effects of his next shot."

"I'm assuming it's not of the bullet kind," Shore dryly said, the group of nine men walking at a fast yet almost coordinated pace.

"He's been given a serum, an inhibitor that was developed to stop his… special abilities. The doses are supposed to be administrated every six hours."

"But after the cocktail of drugs you've already given him, it doesn't seem like the wise thing to do," Shore summarized for him.

"You'll tell me. You're about to become the expert," Harrington said without missing a step, the well lit corridors clean to the sterile point, white walls marked with colored lines that at each turned indicated where they headed: Labs, quarters and testing. No doubt each section would have its sub-division; maybe more colors would join the yellow, blue and red lines.

"Has he said anything else, sir?" Anders cut in as they crossed another corridor, now only the labs and testing lines marked on the wall.

"No, and we haven't pushed for it either. We were waiting for your arrival to decide a course of action."

The corridor divided in two again, this time double doors halting their progression in both directions. Labs and Testing marked on each set, the four soldiers that had accompanied Harrington staying a couple of steps behind. Harrington moved to the bio scanner and placed his hand for verification. A green light lit, accompanied by a loud beep. Calmly taking his own handgun, he pointed it at Anders' chest.

"We need to verify your identities," he said in a neutral tone, the soldiers behind them taking aim as well. It took him a second to realize that there was a real possibility that they could be shapeshifters in disguise. Michael had passed the security scan in Eagle Rock, their records had shown, so chances were, anyone coming from the outside could be an alien as well.

He moved first. The sooner they finished the security procedures, the faster they could get into the heart of things. His hand checked positive for bone structure, and his fingerprint and dark brown iris matched with those of the computer's file. He was, indeed, who he said he was.

Shore went through the same procedure, and so did the two soldiers who had escorted them. The whole thing lasted about ten minutes, no one saying anything, the weapons carefully trained on them. Anders wondered if tranquilizer darts would come out of those guns should the security system prove them non-human. He suspected as much.

All of them cleared, the soldiers lowered their weapons and stood their positions, as Harrington, Shore and himself went through the "Testing" wing. No apologies were given, no questions asked about what had just happened. It was only procedure.

A man in light blue scrubs met them at the end of the corridor.

"Agent Cooper, this is Dr. Shore," Colonel Harrington introduced both men, "Doctor, he'll get you to your patient. Lieutenant Colonel, we still have some debriefing to do. We'll watch them through the observation room." The Agent and Shore started to go to the right, and just as Anders was going to go to the left, Harrington called them back, "Doctor, if you have any questions or need anything, don't hesitate to ask. We haven't come so far to fail."

Shore nodded once, and instantly turned to the Agent to get the information that had so obviously been left out of the two pages that had been faxed to Washington about Max's health, and had landed less than thirty minutes ago in Peter Shore's hands.

Harrington guided Anders through the corridor in the opposite direction.

"Shore seems like a capable man," Harrington said, gray eyes betraying no emotion.

"He really was our best choice, sir," Anders assured his superior as they reached the other corner where a flight of stairs was guarded by one more soldier. The Afro-American private saluted and let them pass.

"How many men are stationed here, sir?" Anders wondered out loud, Shore's remark about security coming to mind.

"Not nearly enough. Six agents, eight privates and two technicians. But we can't afford leaks, and the place is a small fortress in itself. We're counting on the fact that Evans was sedated when he came here, so he has no way of knowing –or telling anyone- where he is."

"Do you believe him, sir? About Antar?" Anders asked as they reached the observation room, one floor overlooking the sick bay, turned off monitors that would show vital information on both side walls silent since neither man in here would know how to interpret them.

"Oh, I believe he believes it," was all his answer as the Lieutenant Colonel took his first look at Max Evans.

The room below was well lit and spacious. It was certainly not meant for one man only, but then again, Anders didn't know what this place was usually meant for. Right in the middle, on a narrow hospital bed, lay the man that had the capital of the United States wide awake and worried at 2:00 a.m.

He was wrapped in several dark blue blankets, colorless IV bags dripping fluids through equally colorless plastic lines that invariably ended in a vein somewhere below those blankets. An oxygen mask was attached to his face, while silent lights turned on and off on machines both by his side and at the far wall of the room. Cordless monitors, Anders guessed, his breath caught in his throat at the thought that this man could very well die in their care without them having a definite answer to their diplomatic problem.

"They've been having trouble keeping him warm," Harrington quietly said, as he too contemplated Max, both men aware of the political dangers that had drawn Lieutenant Colonel William Anders to this observation room.

"I thought you'd said he was stable," Anders said, movement catching his eyes below at his right. Peter Shore was cleaning himself up and getting ready to enter the room.

"He is," Harrington said, "as long as you don't take him out of those blankets, the warm IV and the warm oxygen."

"Wait… as if he were hypothermic?"

"He _is_ hypothermic," Harrington corrected. "He doesn't seem to retain any warmth of his own. The problem started about three hours ago. Once his temperature reached a normal level and the technicians started to take the blankets off, it dropped like a stone. Our head technician, Captain Whitmore over there," the Colonel signaled the man that was with Shore in the antechamber to the improvised ICU, "thought the serum might have damaged, or at least inhibited vital functions from the hypothalamus."

Anders' eyes narrowed to get a better look at Whitmore, obviously debriefing Shore as the newly added doctor was putting on the same light blue scrubs Agent Cooper had been wearing before.

"That's when you called in a qualified internist. You realized you had a bigger problem on your hands than you could handle."

"I was hoping Whitmore was just partially right," Harrington said, not arguing the fact that Anders was right. "That it was a side effect that would resolve on its own. Except the time for the next dose has come and gone, and he's not improving one bit."

_Jesus_, Anders thought, his eyes returning to Max, so pale and still and… lifeless. And for the first time –but certainly not for the last by a long shot- he actually whispered, _Please don't die._


	9. Visitors

**Chapter 8  
Visitors  


* * *

  
**

"He should be dead."

Dr. Lake's voice sounded a bit dull, probably still in the aftermath of the shock that came from knowing that her mysterious healer was not quite human. Holt had been there not less than six hours ago. Heck, he was still a bit shocked at the fact he had been held against the wall by nothing more than thin air.

Still, the fact remained that Max should be dead. By 6:00 a.m. their patient's fever had reached 109 ºF, a temperature that according to everything he knew should be incompatible with life. By 6:00 a.m. too, they had had to keep helping at the ER, still dozens of people on stretchers and a couple of hundred in the parking lot waiting for news or to identify the victims. The hospital was a controlled entity once again, but it was at its limits, and four doctors -including the head of Neurology and the head of Cardiology- missing were bound to raise eyebrows, so they had decided on rotating themselves in order to figure out their latest puzzle.

They had moved Max to the quarantine wing, a sub-level isolated area in the hospital, after the incident at the ICU. Officially, they had no idea what was making their John Doe so sick, and so they had been granted the quarantine crystal room in case it was contagious. Unofficially, this limited the number of people likely to cross Max's path.

If it weren't for the fact that they were short-staffed and still in the middle of a crisis, it wouldn't have been long before other specialists would have been called in to diagnose Max. It wouldn't take too long before the crisis passed though, so Holt knew they were running out of time, and he had absolutely no idea what would happen once this whole thing blew up in their faces.

As it was, he didn't even want to think about almost dying because his wingless angel couldn't tell friend from foe. For all intents and purposes, Max was a very dangerous man.

"He just... should be dead..." Lake repeated as they both walked through the hall towards the ER. "109... God, he's just burning up..."

"Let McConnell and Cramer deal with it now," Holt tried to sooth her, the memory of the first time he had touched Max to get him out of the taxi cab clear in his mind. Max had been so damned warm. Burning indeed. "We don't know what kind of resistance he has. Maybe it's not as bad as we think."

She suddenly stopped. "We have to find those people," she said, eyes unfocused, lost in some vague point.

"What people? The ones you said you saw when you touched him? You don't even know what you really saw. Maybe he was just projecting a dream or a delusion," Dr. Holt reasoned, resuming his walking as Dr. Lake glared at him. She had told them what she had experienced with that "connection" and why she was so sure they shouldn't touch him. But the truth was they had touched Max before and after Susan had, and none of them had seen anything.

"Someone must know what is wrong with him or how to help him," she whispered as they entered the ER area, the sea of humanity that had been there twelve hours ago now down by half. Reporters loomed outside in the parking lot, along with policemen and all kinds of people that were waiting for the new list of patients identified to be posted. The ambulances were nowhere to be seen, taking away the awfully loud sound of their sirens that had been non-stop the night before. The hospital still remained closed to any new patients.

"Well, what do you suggest?" Holt asked her before starting with the first patient, "That we go around pasting his face on every wall in hopes someone has seen him?"

She opened her mouth to answer, and then stopped. Her eyes went round as they focused on something behind him.

"I think someone just beat us to it," she said, as Holt turned to see what she was talking about.

_.  
HAVE YOU SEEN MAX EVANS?  
._

The letter sized sheet read with a picture of a younger Max in black and white. The victims' families were just starting to resort to this kind of posters if they couldn't find their loved ones at either hospitals or the morgue. _Please call us at 555-3171_ was the only other information that was given. At least now they had a complete name.

By his side, Dr. Lake took out her cell phone and started to dial.

"What the hell are you doing?" Holt said as he practically grabbed it away from her, lifting it high as if she were going to jump for it.

"What the hell am I doing? What the hell are _you_ doing? Someone is obviously looking for him! And he needs all the help he can get!" she argued in hushed tones, nurses and doctors walking behind her.

"We don't know who we're calling here! Remember McConnell's suspicions? Someone out there doesn't have the best intentions for him. We need a plan. We need to run this by Cramer and McConnell first."

"What? Why?"

"Because whoever is at the other side of that number is going to come get him... and he or they or whatever might well come looking for us too. Don't you get it Susan? We're all part of this— this _conspiracy_ now. We have to decide as a group." Holt said as he ripped the black and white poster and turned around.

"I'll be back in a minute," he half muttered as he went past her, giving her the cell phone back. "Don't make any calls to these people."

Susan was angry. Holt didn't care. This was bigger than the two of them, _way_ bigger, and he would be damned if he at least didn't consult with the other two people involved. Besides, McConnell seemed to have a better idea of what they should be doing, and the young doctor trusted the wisdom of the senior neurologist more than his own.

He went through the same corridors he had just walked two minutes before, retracing his way back to the quarantine room, all the way thinking about men in black, little green and gray aliens, and doctors in hazmat suits, all colliding at the front of Saint Paul's Hospital ER in search of Max Evans.

God, the very idea of who or what could be waiting for that call made him shiver as he entered the elevator and pressed sub-level 2. Trying to calm himself down, he guessed that the most realistic option would be the men in hazmat suits. Not because they would be afraid of Max contaminating them, but of them contaminating Max. No one really knew what was making him so sick, though at 109 ºF, Holt doubted any virus or bacteria would survive. Whatever it was that was trashing his systems, it wasn't natural.

"I swear I would inject ice in his veins if I didn't think the shock alone would kill him," Dr. Cramer was saying as Holt arrived with the sheet of paper in his hands. The quarantine room was large enough to contain four beds inside, all four walls transparent, and as well equipped as any ICU. It also had a small room attached for doctors and nurses to decontaminate every time they entered or exited the room, a procedure that invariably felt like it was taking an eternity.

Holt had seldom been down here. Not many patients were sent here, where diagnosis was still pending but a viral or bacterial cause was more likely than not causing the illness. Nurses were still indispensable in the upper levels, so Dr. Cramer and Dr. McConnell were alone, and would be for some time as well.

They were both inside the glass walls doing exactly the same thing Holt and Susan had left them doing: trying to get Max's fever down.

"We've got a problem," Holt said, standing as close to the glass wall as he could.

"Yes, his temperature has just reached 111," Dr. Cramer said without turning to look at him, breaking ice packages all around the light blue cooling blankets. By now the bed was soaked in ice water as both men kept applying cold compresses to their patient. They were afraid a direct ice bath would collapse Max's system, the shock too intense.

"No, I'm talking about this," Holt said as he held the poster in both hands at chest level, so they could see. McConnell finally looked up when Holt's explanation didn't come.

"What is that?" he asked, his attention now divided between helping Cramer and trying to read what Holt was holding.

"It's a poster. With his face. And a number. Someone's looking for him, leaving posters for people to identify him."

"How many are out there?" Cramer said, now looking at the poster as well.

"Don't know. We just found this one with Susan in the ER. She wanted to call, I told her to wait. What do you think we should do?"

Dr. Cramer actually left Max's side and went to the glass to get a proper look at the poster. Dr. McConnell was about to follow, when Holt noticed him tensing. Holt's eyes went to Max, and saw that his eyes were open, though he was far from being alert.

"She's beautiful…" he barely said above a whisper, his voice sounding raspy.

"Who is?" McConnell gently asked, as both Holt and Cramer held their breaths. Max Evans should be dead by all accounts, as Susan had said, but the fact that he was conscious at 111°F was way more than any of them would have expected.

"She is," Max said, his eyes clearly seeing things that weren't there. He was delusional, something that was expected with high fevers. Maybe Max was reaching his breaking point.

McConnell pressed for more. "Is she the same girl who was in your dreams?" he asked, his eyes traveling to the monitors, his attention staying with the EEG patterns. The neurologist was clearly seeing something interesting in Max's brain waves.

"No… she's not… my sister," Max slowly answered, and then he feebly frowned. "Do I… have a sister?" he asked more to himself than anyone else. Holt doubted Max knew how many people were near him to begin with.

"What does she look like? This beautiful girl?" McConnell asked him again. Holt wondered if McConnell was thinking about matching this girl to anyone in Susan's flashes.

"I think… she's worried," Max said, his eyelids starting to get heavy. Max frowned again, as if something were happening that he couldn't understand. Then, "I should be running," he stated as he slightly moved his head forward, with all the intention of getting up.

"No, you should be resting," McConnell patiently said as he lightly pushed Max's head back into the wet pillow. They were going to have to change that entire bed soon, Holt knew. "Is she still here?" the eldest doctor asked.

It took longer for Max to answer, his eyes moving from one side of the room to the other and back, as if he were following someone pacing. "I think… she's looking for… something."

"Do you know her name? How we can call her? Tell her we're trying to help you?" McConnell said, turning around as if he could see the girl Max was talking about. Nothing but air, machines, glass walls and concrete walls beyond those met his eyes.

It took even longer this time, as Max's consciousness was starting to fade. "She's beautiful," he repeated, and Holt wondered if Max actually knew her or not. They got no more response than that, and McConnell quietly cursed as Max slipped into unconsciousness again.

Both Cramer and Holt sighed in frustration with him.

"I swear he's going to spontaneously combust right in front of our eyes," Cramer sort of whispered to Holt as only the glass wall was between them now, the cardiologist's eyes returning to the poster that Holt was still holding in both hands. "Who posted it?"

"Damned if I know," the younger doctor said, watching as McConnell was still checking the monitors beside Max's bed. "You think we should call?" Holt anxiously asked.

"And say what? E.T. can't come to the phone right now?" Cramer retorted a bit testy. Truth be told, they were all pulling a double shift right now, and that situation was not helping any. Sooner or later, they had to sleep.

By Max's side, McConnell re-arranged the doses on the IV lines. "We have to ask ourselves who would want to post it, and then we'll take it from there."

"Friends? Family?" Holt ventured.

"Whoever had him before? They must know Max is not exactly in good shape." Cramer added. "They would know to look for him in hospitals."

"They would have expected us to report Max by now," McConnell considered in a serious, quiet tone. "But I don't think his friends would run the risks of being openly looking for him either."

"But you're assuming they _know_ Max's secret," Cramer pointed out.

"No, I'm assuming whoever posted it knows he needs a hospital, and is using the train derailment to cover their search," McConnell clarified. Both Holt and Cramer looked at him expectantly. McConnell stared at Max, as if their patient could tell them the answer. "It doesn't make sense," he finally said. "It's like whoever posted it doesn't mean ill to him, but doesn't want to attract attention either."

_Or maybe we're too tired to properly see this_, Holt thought as he watched McConnell's worn-out expression. "So, you think we should call?" he tentatively asked, feeling slightly guilty for having chastised Susan earlier so easily.

"I think..." McConnell said as his eyes returned to the monitors, "that if this fever doesn't come down soon, there's not going to be any risk in calling anyone anymore."

* * *

  
The second call came at 11:11 a.m.

It was only appropriate, Peter Shore thought, since the first one had come at 3:33 a.m. He had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep somewhere around 4:30 a.m., papers sprawled all over him and the table in front, a dull ache in his neck courtesy of the unnatural way he had fallen asleep on the hardly comfortable chair. Billy -or rather Lieutenant Colonel Anders- was nowhere in sight.

His cell phone rang once more. He opened it without a glance to the caller ID. It had to be either the field Agents or the people stationed here, so it was bound to be a Max related call.

"Shore here," he said, still felling a bit sluggish after four days of hardly any sleep.

"We have a confirmation," Agent Cooper's voice came clear, a surge of adrenaline making Shore sit up straight in his chair, papers flying everywhere.

"Where?"

"A taxi driver recognized Evans from one of the posters we placed in a shelter. He called saying he had driven him yesterday around 8 p.m. to Saint Paul's Hospital ER. He remembers because Max practically collapsed in front of him; said he was running one hell of a fever."

"Saint Paul's Hospital? I thought Agent Walker had already checked it," Shore said as he started to look for a blue report stashed somewhere on that table. Snatching it from under the medical reports he had reviewed the night before, he scanned the lines to refresh his memory. "There were four probable places at 3:30 this morning. A nurse said he had recognized him, but then they couldn't find Max there. The nurse said he might have mistaken him."

"I'm aware, sir," came Cooper's apologetic voice, "but this confirms that Evans was there last night. We can start a search from that point outward. If he's still sick, he couldn't have gone far."

_No, he couldn't, _Shore thought closing his eyes. Without medical attention, he wasn't sure how much longer Max's own system would last. Shore needed to find Max. And Cooper was right, what were the chances that both the nurse and the taxi driver had pointed to Saint Paul's Hospital? "Contact Colonel Harrington, I'm going there."

* * *

_Doctor Lake, you're required at the front desk.  
Doctor Lake, you're required at the front desk.  
._

_No, I'm required to the world of sanity,_ Susan thought, the last 24 hours starting to get blurry in her head, with certain details like a five dotted V shining on a man's head really clear. Maybe once she collapsed on her bed and then awakened, she would realize that things were just a big, big, _big_ misunderstanding.

The nursing station looked like a bee's nest, nurses and doctors and residents and patients and people swarming around it, trying to do this or that, sometimes talking, sometimes shouting, but all the time in movement. The most experienced nurses were getting things under control by now, as more victims had already been identified.

By the time Susan Lake arrived, there were a handful of people asking the whereabouts of patients, so Susan waited till she could talk to the head nurse and see why she had been called. She would meet with Holt in about twenty minutes, so Dr. McConnell and Dr. Cramer could finally go to sleep. Max's fever hadn't broken by now, and for all they could tell, he was slowly but inexorably slipping into a coma.

"Doctor Lake?" a man asked behind her.

Tall, pale, wiry and with the darkest black hair Susan had ever seen, the man looked at her intently with sparkling green eyes.

"Yeah?" she tentatively said, trying to place his face in some context and failing miserably. He grinned all the same.

"I'm so glad I found you. I took the first plane heading this way, knowing it was crazy, and I know it _is_ crazy, but I just couldn't let this opportunity pass and…" he kept talking –babbling really- and it was that tone, that slightly southern accent, and that never ending tongue that finally gave Susan the final clue.

"You're Dr. Hayden!" she exclaimed, as he finally shut up, bewildered. "You flew all the way from Phoenix?"

It couldn't be. Oh God, it just couldn't be.

She had called this man last night so he would give her information about the children at the Phoenix Hospital and the report of their Christmas Miracle, but she had pretty much forgotten all about him once she had hung up. She had told him the little she had known about Max at the time, but she had pretty much disclosed that the man responsible for those silver handprints had been admitted early that night.

And now here he was, a bundle of barely contained energy.

"Where is he?" he finally asked, all serious now.

"He… he's not… here," she said, feeling the blood rushing to her cheeks. God, why was she such a bad liar? She felt so stupid, yet at the same time very protective of Max.

"What do you mean he's not here? You said yesterday he was being treated at the ER and that he looked very sick…" Hayden trailed off, looking at her intensely. Staring, really.

Yes, she had said that. An unknown man that had stopped by Sarah Meyer's bed, who then had collapsed in an ER room… Right.

"I don't know what to tell you…" Susan said, tensing. She couldn't admit he was being treated here, Hayden wouldn't understand why they were being so secretive about this whole thing. "I guess he just left…"

"You didn't follow his case?" Hayden said, taken aback. "The man left a silver handprint on one of your patients, and you just forgot all about him?" he all but shouted.

Well, no. She had done quite a lot of research, including calling Hayden himself, not to mention eavesdropping on every nurse's conversation regarding McConnell's patients she could find, until she had finally tracked down where Max had been placed… and she knew that Hayden knew that she hadn't just let it go. But he was pushing her just a little too far on her nerves now. God, she needed a cigarette _now. _"Dr. Hayden, we do have a crisis on our hands here. I was needed in four different places at the same time last night," she angrily said, "and please, _keep your voice down,_" she said in a threatening voice.

Hayden closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, I… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that," he sincerely apologized. "It's just that I haven't gotten out of my head the fact that I might get to know this man. He healed those children, Dr. Lake, he really did. I even brought with me the clips and pictures and even the charts from the children, from before and after," he said, lifting a black suitcase for her to see, "though I have no idea what to expect… Does he even know about these medical facts? Does he even care?"

Now it was her turn to feel guilty. Poor Dr. Hayden looked like a lost puppy on a rainy night. But what was she supposed to say? _This way, please _and guide him to the quarantine wing? She couldn't let him in on this secret. Holt had been really clear about all four of them being stuck with this "conspiracy". They hadn't even felt comfortable enough to make the call, not knowing who they would be calling in the first place.

"Can I see Sarah?" Hayden asked, his far away look retuning to the present.

Little Sarah Meyer was still in the ICU, recovering from her surgery the night before, the silver handprint on her chest softly glowing under the bandages. Both her parents were still missing, and so far, no one had come to claim her. The only reason they knew she was Sarah Meyer was because her name had been sewn in her jacket and blouse.

"Sure, this way," Susan said, slightly relieved that Hayden was not pressing on Max's whereabouts. She would be late catching up with Holt and taking her place so both McConnell and Cramer could go to rest, but this was the least she could do for the guy who had flown from Phoenix in search of his miracle maker.

Behind her, a man had been avidly listening to their conversation. A man who knew everything there was to know about Phoenix, silver handprints and healed children. A man who knew Max was running out of time.

* * *

He was losing it. Or more accurately, he was losing _him_.

Dr. McConnell stared at the monitors, feeling helpless, his mind crowded with charts that didn't make sense, tests that didn't help, and a myriad of drugs he should be using but was afraid to try. They had already gambled a lot in the scarce 17 hours Max had been under their care, but with a 111 degree fever, there just didn't seem to be anything that would help at all.

Maybe their drugs were doing this to him. Maybe his racing heart was right in beating so fast, and his body needed to be this warm and all he needed was to rest…

Maybe McConnell was reaching a breaking point. He wasn't afraid to admit it, that much he knew. He was only afraid of watching this man die without ever really knowing why.

Dr. Cramer had left about an hour ago on an emergency in Cardiology. God knew McConnell himself should be up there doing his rounds. Holt had come by about three hours ago so he had had a chance to make an appearance, but all his thoughts had been concentrated on their most challenging patient. A patient who by all means should already be dead.

But Max was clinging to his life, and McConnell would be damned if he didn't try as hard to save it. The problem was he didn't know how. He didn't know what to try, what to do, what to _not_ do. They had bought Max a few hours of privacy down here, of anonymity, but was all of that worth it if it meant Max would die? Shouldn't he be searching for every specialist available, working with a larger team on discovering what was wrong with Max and how to help him?

With every passing heartbeat, Jay McConnell was more and more certain that was the way to go. What was he waiting for, anyway? That Max's fever would reach 112? Max's permission? Maybe just Max's reassurance that he knew they needed to let the world know... He was an amazing being with a wonderful gift, after all, an extraordinary set of abilities that were mind numbing. He could heal with a touch; he could keep people at bay with his mind. He could do that bizarre, green, sort-of-electric shield. Even that strange connection that had allowed Dr. Lake to see images, thoughts, from Max's mind. And the more McConnell thought about it, the more convinced he was that Max had been talking to someone in his sleep.

Those EEG readings he had been seeing at the time had had a very peculiar pattern. It didn't seem as if Max was waking up from a very vivid dream, but that more elaborate thought processes had been involved. And they had taken on an almost identical pattern when Max had woken up around 6:00 a.m. and had started talking about a beautiful girl that looked worried. Max had _seen_ her, McConnell was positive about it. He was so sure, in fact, that he had tried to say out loud to the mystery girl that they were trying to help Max.

Who were these women, anyway? Max's sister and her beautiful companion, who spoke to Max during his sleep and —maybe— delirium. Could she be his wife? The mark on Max's left ring finger could mean different things, he guessed, but it would seem appropriate that Max would think his own wife beautiful and that she would look worried about him.

And there was another name, Michael. He had mentioned him once before, and it had seemed like a familiar, safe name. Not someone he was afraid of. A friend. Maybe a brother?

But if these people were communicating with Max, why hadn't they shown up? Where were they? And could they help? Could they bring Max's heartbeat to a healthy pace, and Max's fever to a nice 98.6 degrees?

And what would McConnell tell them if they finally showed up, but were already too late?

He adjusted Max's cooling blankets as he stared at his pale features. "If you can really hear me," McConnell said a little self-consciously, yet hoping that someone at the other side of Max's mind was listening, "I can really use some help here…"

A sound of something connecting with the glass wall at his left snapped McConnell out of his intended message. A tall man was standing there, worried and serious and hopeful all at once. He was around his same age, and he hadn't been sleeping on a nice comfortable bed for some days now, McConnell could tell. They were probably even having matching dark circles under their eyes. The stranger was looking at him with the most piercing stare, maybe just judging him on a first impression basis. He was pressing something against the wall, and it took the neurologist a second to register what it was: A syringe.

"He needs this _now_," he said, not questioning anything about Max's condition, or even who McConnell was. The urgency of his voice was barely disguised in his face, his eyes now on Max's form.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this man not only knew Max, but was very aware of what was going on with him. McConnell would bet that this was the man who had all the answers. Who knew who and what Max was and what had happened to him before Max had been delivered to the ER. Hell, he could very well be responsible for what was happening to Max right now.

"Who are you?" McConnell asked, seemingly frozen in place, his voice hard.

"I'm Dr. Peter Shore," he said, pressing his hand harder to the glass wall as if he could physically move the syringe closer to Max. "I'm this kid's last hope," he urgently said, both men staring at each, unsure if they could trust each other.

In retrospect, McConnell would admit –but only to himself- that it was the "kid" reference that had made him act. Still, in that moment all he could see was the heartbeat monitor not slowing down, Max's high blood pressure getting higher, and cooling blankets that weren't cooling.

He was out of choices.

He rushed to the glass wall to where a small window-like panel was placed so things could be passed back and forth. Right now he had nothing else to help Max with.

"Give him the entire dose," Shore said as he placed the syringe full with a copperish liquid on the panel. "He'll react immediately, so focus him on healing himself."

"What?" McConnell said as he retrieved the needle, pausing to stare at the man. What was he talking about? Max barely had enough energy to keep breathing.

"Just do it!" the other doctor snapped, already moving towards the small changing room, clearly intending to enter the quarantine area as soon as he was decontaminated. Shore's momentary loss of control made all of McConnell's instincts go on high alert. He was torn between wanting to help Max by believing this man, and to protect Max by keeping this proclaimed doctor away. He looked at the fluid inside, nodding once to himself as he moved back to Max's side, hunting the IV line.

The choice had been as simple as this: If this man wanted Max dead all he would need was to stand aside and watch it happen. And, even if McConnell refused, he had no doubt that his mystery doctor would make sure Max got it all the same. At least for now McConnell could be around.

"Once he wakes up, tell him to concentrate on healing himself," Shore said. "He'll understand."

Waking up? Was this some sort of adrenaline rush? McConnell stopped just as he introduced the needle, not pushing whatever drug was in it forward.

"Are you sure he can take this? He's already running a 111 fever—"

"And his heart rate is through the roof, I know," the man said already half wearing the scrubs. "He reached 113 two days ago, and was in worse shape. He can take it."

So Shore _had_ been there, at least two days ago, his mind concluded without effort, wondering why had Max ended up collapsing in the street if this man had been doing a good job. It didn't matter. He was still out of choices, and Max was getting dangerously out of time. Closing his eyes as he pushed the fluid inside, he prayed he was really making the right choice.

There was no time for regrets. He watched the drug made its clear path to Max's vein, and unconsciously held his breath. Max's heart was still going over 162 beats and it suddenly started to go even faster. For one horrible second McConnell really thought he had made a terrible mistake.

Max's eyes snapped open, taking a mouthful of air as if he were coming from deep water. McConnell froze as he stared at him, Max's eyes half aware, half clouded with drugs, completely out of focus, as if Max were waiting to hear something and then go back to sleep. He didn't seem to notice that McConnell was standing right beside him, or that he was running an absurdly high fever. He didn't move, didn't even blink.

The constant fast beeping of the monitor started to slow down, making McConnell turn practical -if hopeful- eyes to see what else was changing. As he did so, he crossed eyes with Shore, who had stopped adjusting the scrubs and was watching him intently. Of course, he was supposed to tell Max to heal himself.

Sensing his doubt, Shore nodded his head urging him to tell Max exactly that, now hurrying again in getting ready to enter the quarantine room, probably thinking he would have to do the job himself. The thing was, every single time Max had seemed to do something weird, it had taxed him considerably. How could he ask him this now?

Max shivered, and watching him McConnell had a flashback of Max saying that he was cold. If that goddamn glowing started again, his attempt to warm himself, McConnell seriously doubted he would survive it.

"Max. Max," the neurologist said, trying to get Max's attention. Max blinked slowly, his eyes trying to find McConnell's face. "You have to focus, okay? Focus all your energy on healing your own body. Don't think about the cold, I'll worry about it. Just do whatever it is you do, and slow your heartbeat, and lower your temperature, and—"

Shore put his hand on McConnell's shoulder, now fully dressed in scrubs and decontaminated, shaking his head from side to side, effectively silencing him.

"Heal yourself, Max," Shore said in a clear voice, his eyes looking directly at Max's. "And rest."

A few seconds went by, but they felt like an eternity to McConnell. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but when Max closed his eyes and his chest started to lightly glow, all his hope sunk deeper than never before. Max was doing it again, and it would cost him his life.

"Wait," Shore whispered, maybe reading the desperation in the other doctor's eyes. McConnell looked at him, already half hating him and himself, just to follow the path of his eyes directly to the heart monitor: 124. 118. 112.

It went steadily down until it reached 64 and stayed there. McConnell hadn't even blinked. Every time Max had done the glowing-warming trick his heart had skyrocketed in barely seconds, yet now it was –finally- stable at a reasonable resting pace.

"What did you do to him?" McConnell whispered back, and they both knew that he wasn't talking about the copperish, miraculous serum he had just injected into their not human patient, but about what had happened four days before.


	10. Classified

**Chapter 9  
Classified  


* * *

**

No, it wasn't a joke, but God, it certainly felt like one.

"Classified?" Dr. McConnell said with a twinge of disbelief, as if what Peter Shore was saying was not only laughable but also insulting. It probably was.

Dr. Shore looked into the blue eyes of the man who had kept secret one of the most valuable and covert missions in the history of the United States, sitting on something that was as mind blowing as alien life, and had done a good job of it, too. Max Evans was still alive.

So it did feel like a ridiculously cruel joke that now that this doctor could have some answers, all Shore could say was, "It's classified".

"We'll take him to a secure place," Shore said, as if McConnell hadn't said a thing, "once it's safe to move him. Right now I need to know who else knows about what's been going on here, and I need all the information that's in his chart."

As Shore reached for the chart at the foot of the bed, McConnell moved with him at the opposite side of the bed, as if he were going to reach for the chart as well. Instead, McConnell reached for Shore's hand, making him stop.

"What did you do to him?" he asked again with a clear and firm voice, his stare hard and piercing. The urge to tell him the automatic answer –it's classified- burnt in Shore's throat as he swallowed it back, trying to decide the best way to answer without sounding disrespectful. Just enough to calm the man who had saved Evans' life, but vague enough for the Unit to still be clandestine.

Right below their somewhat linked hands, Max shivered.

McConnell let Shore's hand go and turned to check on their patient. "It's a common side effect," Shore reassured McConnell, following his intended trajectory and grabbing the chart. "It'll pass in a few minutes."

"He hasn't been doing so well for the past twelve hours," McConnell said, looking at Max instead of Shore. "Every time he does… _something_, he just gets worse," the older man stated, generally pointing to Max's faintly glowing chest. He started to take the cooling blankets off as Max's temperature continued to drop. At 103, Max didn't need the cold in contact with his skin. In fact, getting his temperature to drop so fast wasn't in Max's best interest, either.

Funny how the first time Shore had met Max, their priority had been exactly the opposite: Warming up Max, not cooling him down. So much still remained a mystery, like how Max's biochemistry and metabolism dealt with the drugs in his system, but at least Shore was reasonably confident that the serum that had just been given to him would stabilize him enough for his healing system to kick in. They had been betting on that specific talent of his for the past four days.

In fact, they had been betting on a lot of things for the past four –almost five- days, Shore reminded himself. Not for the first time, the thought of all that had happened left him thinking that this was surreal. That he would wake up at home, laugh about it, and keep on with his normal life. But he knew better, and having Max still fighting for his life after four days was a harsh reminder of what reality was at this very moment. He didn't look better than the first time he had approached him, he realized, as his mind took him back to that underground facility, just minutes after he and Billy –or rather Lieutenant Colonel Anders- had passed the bio-scanner that first night and both friends had gone down separate corridors . . .

.

_. . . "Agent Cooper, right?" Shore's voice was low and urgent, as both_ men walked rapidly to the antechamber of the sickbay. The agent beside him nodded once. "As in the same Agent Cooper who shot Max along with Agent Walker?"

Agent Cooper visibly cringed. "I didn't know Walker had shot him already," he explained with a worried look. "I wouldn't have shot him knowing a dose was already in his system."

"So, what happened? Walker shot at his back and you at his chest?" Shore asked, aiming at getting all the facts right about what drugs and how much of those had made it into Max's body, and in what context. Being an internist –and a doctor in general- meant he had a big puzzle in front of him, and every single detailed mattered, especially when his puzzle was a half-alien, half-human hybrid who came with no description or warning on his box.

His question actually came out sounding more like a reprimand. Cooper stopped in his tracks.

"Of course not! The subject was raising that… that _thing_, that _shield_, I guess. A green wall made of energy or something crazy like that. I hadn't known he could do that. Christ, I was so scared, I thought he was… he was… going to wrap me with it, or something… We know those creatures can kill by burning internally, leaving a silver handprint behind… or just combusting the body, leaving barely burnt tissue and ashes. So I thought, 'this is it'. Except Evans' eyes were just as scared as mine, and I knew he didn't have it in him to kill me."

"A green energy shield?" Shore asked, clearly thinking that was the relevant point of the conversation.

"Or something," Cooper said, now both men walking again, "So I pointed at him, knowing Walker was on his way, waiting for Evans to make a mistake… All the time thinking, 'how the hell am I going to survive this?' What kind of training prepares you for such things?"

"So Walker shot him…?" Shore said by way of inviting Cooper to continue in the right direction, away from his personal feelings.

"I didn't notice. Walker came by a hall in my right, effectively shooting Evans on the left shoulder. I didn't see it. The green shield was distorting everything on the other side. All I saw was Evans walking backwards, that green thing dissolving, him reaching for the door, and I just reacted. I shot him on the spot. I aimed for the legs, but he just collapsed, and the dart ended up on his shoulder. For one second I thought I had shot him directly in the heart."

But of course he hadn't, or they wouldn't be walking this hall right now. It would have paralyzed Max's heart, and chances of bringing him back would have been next to zero.

"So then you realized he had been shot twice," Shore said before Cooper could go on another rant about his thoughts. On any other occasion, Shore would have listened gladly, but right now he was eager for the medically relevant information. The feeling that time was running out was strong in the air.

"He was unconscious less than a minute after I shot him. I thought he might have been faking it, so I told Walker to keep his gun trained on Evans while I checked him out."

"You have medical training?" Shore asked, for the first time wondering why Cooper was wearing scrubs if he was a field agent, and what kind of assistance he would have been able to provide.

"I served as a paramedic before joining the force," Cooper said, and continued without taking a breath, "I knew the risks about sedating a person, and of course we were debriefed about what to do once we had them. When I saw both darts, especially so close to his heart, I had little doubt that he wasn't faking anything. I reached for the counter-sedative to stabilize him. His breathing was already compromised, and he was soaked through in sweat, his pulse already going wild—"

"Wait, what?" Shore interrupted him. "Soaked in sweat? It took him less than a minute to get soaked in sweat?" By now they were about to reach the double glass doors, another bio-scanner in place. Shore didn't lose time waiting for the answer as he bent for the retinal scan.

"Well… I guess he had been running. I just thought it was odd that his shirt was damp. But by that point, it didn't matter; the sedative was already paralyzing his lungs, so Walker helped me straighten him to administer the counter-sedative. I was already reporting through the radio about our location, waiting for him to regain a normal breathing pattern, but it just wasn't happening. I was sure he was going into shock." Cooper bent for his retinal scan, giving Shore time to look through the double glass doors at the lonely gurney in the middle of the sickbay, another man in scrubs walking to meet them in the antechamber. Hopefully someone more skillful in the medical profession than "Paramedic Cooper" here.

"When did you administer the serum?" Shore asked, anxious to get in there and see the real charts for himself. Something about Max's sweating bothered him, but he wasn't sure why. So many things about this bothered him, really, that it wasn't funny.

"It was administered along with the counter-sedative, of course. That's procedure. If he had regained consciousness right there and then, he would have been able to kill us.

Great. So Max's system had been bombarded with a deadly overdose of an unknown sedative, following an ineffective counter-sedative and a very powerful neurotransmiter inhibitor just a few seconds after. And these guys were wondering what they had done wrong?

The glass doors slid open and both men entered the antechamber. Once the doors locked behind them, a white fog decontaminated them for what felt like an eternity, but it must have been about a minute. Shore started to take his clothes off to put on the scrubs, when the man inside the sickbay entered the antechamber from his side.

"Dr. Shore, this is Captain Whitmore," Agent Cooper introduced them, and Shore noticed with relief that Whitmore was holding the chart.

"BP90/60; T97.2; Ht56/reg; R15," Whitmore said without waiting for an engraved invitation. Shore already liked him. "Blood tests are one hell of a roller coaster that we've been trying to decipher since he arrived," the Captain explained as he handled the chart and pointed with his hand to the first sheet.

It didn't make sense.

Shore passed through all eleven pages in that chart and hardly anything made sense. He got to the last one, glanced once at his new patient on the gurney inside the sickbay, and took a deep breath.

He was so used to things making sense that this had just taken him by surprise. He had had many medical mysteries on his hands before, things that didn't add up, but none of them hadn't make sense on first impression.

Obviously, Whitmore had done something right because Max was still breathing and reasonably stable, so it was plausible that the young man in front of him had figured some things out by now.

"What's happened?" Shore asked, now giving context to the hardly average test results.

"He arrived around 6 p.m. breathing already rapidly and shallowly," Whitmore said, now telling his side of the story. So Cooper had been able to stabilize Max enough until they had gotten him here, about half an hour after he had been shot –both with tranquilizers and too many drugs- so maybe he should cut the agent some slack. As Whitmore kept going on about low blood pressure and tachycardia, Shore finished putting his scrubs on and was ready to enter and be face to face with his medical enigma. All he needed now was to have all the facts straight first. His gaze returned to the chart. On second thought, he actually sat down. It was going to take a while to untangle this whole mess.

"Afib?" Shore asked, starting with atrial fibrillation as the first cause for the rapid heartbeat. He started to review the first sheet, this time determined to find some logic in that chart. They had just started their differential, and so the most obvious or probable causes for Max's condition were the first to be ruled out. Symptoms needed to have a cause, and it was their job to find it.

"V-tach. But it isn't his heart," Whitmore said with a serious tone. "Something else was messing it up."

Shore stopped in his tracks.

"He went into cardiac arrest?" he said, ventricular tachycardia usually leading to a heart attack. Defibrillation was the most common way of treating it in an ER situation.

"Almost. When we defibrillated, things just got weird," Whitmore said, his eyes now focused on Max, still on the other side of the glass doors. "It was as if we had given him an epi overdose. He regained consciousness immediately with an alarming strength. The cuffs that had been placed to strap him to the gurney? They cut deep into his skin as he tried to get up, and he didn't even flinch. It took three men to settle him down, and even then you could tell he wasn't really aware of any of us. He was just staring into space. He was ice cold, his blood pressure plummeting yet again, and just as suddenly as he had awakened, he lost consciousness," Whitmore returned his eyes to Shore's, "So we _did_ give him the epi then, and started all over again."

They had stabilized Max with no little effort, Shore knew, as the chart in front of him still remained mostly a mystery. The faxed pages Anders had given him had stated that Max had gone into a respiratory arrest, not a cardiac one. He decided right then and there that for all intents and purposes, he had never read those pages to begin with. They were worthless. He noted, regardless, that someone was going to great lengths to try and cover up what was going on here.

"His blood pressure was barely keeping at 90/60 for the next two hours, and then out of the blue, it shot to the sky, his temperature rising along with it; so we tried a different approach," Whitmore started to explain, pausing as if gathering his thoughts. "This is classified information, Dr. Shore, so I'm not allowed to go into details… the US government has been using a highly successful drug for the past four years for interrogation purposes, the LSDA. It's also a great drug when it comes to stabilizing blood pressure and temperature, and generally setting the body into a calm state."

"What exactly did it do to him?" Shore asked, trying to get around the fact that he had to deal with alien biochemistry interacting with an unknown drug. At least unknown to him.

"Exactly that. He got stable. As in a 120/80, 98.6 stable. He actually woke up on his own about twenty minutes later. Since he was under the drug's effects and remained stable, Colonel Harrington asked if he could be interrogated. Just simple questions. I didn't see a problem."

"Drug effects?" Shore asked, more and more anxious to understand the charts in front of him. Even under normal circumstances –that is, with a human patient- these test results were bound to be anything but average.

"It basically places the subject into a highly suggestible state. In a way, it makes it hard to concentrate, so it's rather difficult to lie under it. It makes the brain work more straightforwardly, so telling the truth is the path of least resistance to it. Evans started answering his questions right away, though he was slow about it; about two hours into it, we suspected verbal areas had been compromised when he started to speak incoherently. Then he started to get lethargic. The EEG showed he was having trouble concentrating, more than usual subjects do by this point. His temperature started to drop again."

"Two hours straight?" Shore asked, almost expecting Whitmore to correct himself.

"He had five minute breaks every fifteen minutes," Whitmore said with an apologetic tone. "We knew we were pushing him, but the information he was giving was too important. As long as he kept stable, the Colonel wanted to continue."

"Except before you knew it, he was hypothermic," Shore summarized for him, recognizing the heavy blue blankets that were covering Max. They were used to bring victims of hypothermia to a normal temperature.

"That was three hours ago," Whitmore said, crossing his arms in front of him, looking lost. "He just can't generate warmth. We got him to 98, started taking the blankets away, and wham! A freezer would have taken more time to get frozen. But as long as we keep treating him for hypothermia, he remains stable. So we're just waiting for it all to wear off."

No wonder they had called him.

"So out of the cocktail of drugs you've subjected him to, which one is the most likely candidate to have screwed with his entire nervous system, and how do we flush it out?" Shore asked, his differential being an ugly puzzle right now.

"I don't know," Whitmore admitted, obviously having giving this a lot of thought. "Every drug accounts for something, but then he reacts in unexpected ways that contradict what should be happening to him. I suspected the nervous system as well, but all the tests have come out so distorted they don't make sense."

Of course not. They needed a baseline, a point of reference. They needed to know what was normal for Max without being drugged.

"What about his medical history. At least when the Unit had him back in 2000 he wasn't drowning in chemicals, right?" Shore couldn't be sure, though. He knew Max had been given the serum that stopped him from using his mental abilities, but that was as much as Bill had said that was medically relevant at the time. Max had been interrogated, but by what means, Shore had no idea.

"I've only read the file," Whitmore said, making Shore assume the good Captain was new to the Unit. Maybe Harrington had recruited him. "The ZEDIC serum targeted specific neurotransmitters to block his abilities. The most noticeable side effect to it was weakness in the motor system. He had difficulty standing or grabbing things. The problem is, they also used temazepam for the interrogation, effectively reducing his alertness and speech capabilities. He couldn't tell them a thing. He probably couldn't understand a thing they were asking him to begin with."

"They overdosed him," Shore stated, knowing where this was going. Too much temazepam would render the subject lethargic with myriad symptoms varying from dizziness, to lack of attention, to numb emotions. Commonly, it was used to treat insomnia. Shore guessed it had made sense at the time to use that drug, so it was less likely it would react to the serum that was already inhibiting specific neurotransmitters in their subject's brain. But those technicians wouldn't be stupid enough to overdose Max, which led to the next obvious result:

"He seems to have a very high multiple-drug intolerance," Whitmore concluded out loud at the same time Shore did in his mind, though it seemed that the Captain had discovered this hours ago. "So the problem might be metabolic. Or at least it's one of the things that I've been trying to find down in the lab for the past three hours. It's as if he has a condition of his own."

The term _idiopathic_ glowed in big, red letters in Shore's mind, which was exactly what Whitmore had just said: a condition with an unknown cause. It was one of those words he didn't like because it made him feel like an ignorant fool. In his mind, the word morphed into _idiot_.

"So, we don't know anything for sure," he said, the chart slowly making some small amount of sense in front of his eyes. He hoped it wasn't wishful thinking. "Maybe it was the temazepam causing all the side effects, or maybe all the effects Max exhibited were a delayed reaction from the ZEDIC serum. We know we didn't give him temazepam now, but the serum didn't mess with his inner thermometer and freeze him from the inside out back in 2000." At this point, he was talking more to himself than to Whitmore. It occurred to him that he didn't know what kind of specialist Whitmore was.

"I need a complete drug composition of the sedative, the LSDA drug and the ZEDIC serum, and anything you have on the 2000 file, classified or otherwise," Shore said turning his eyes up to meet the Captain's. "Maybe then something will make sense."

Inside, Max started to move, the monitors starting to beep more animatedly as he was regaining consciousness.

"Maybe he'll just heal himself," Agent Cooper quietly –yet hopefully- said. Shore had almost forgotten he had been there the whole time.

_Heal himself_? Shore thought, Bill's story about how Max had healed his wife coming to mind, _Wouldn't it be handy?_

As he finally entered the sickbay to meet his new patient, the thought stuck in his mind. _Wouldn't it be handy, indeed?_

* * *

He wasn't thinking about aliens. Or Angels.

As Dr. Hayden gently lifted little Sarah Meyer' bandages to have a closer look to the glowing silver handprint on her chest, he was thinking more in the realm of the possibilities of human evolution.

He was sure a human was behind this. Granted, not a common human, but definitely someone from this world, who abided by the same laws of physics and biology. There just was no question about it.

He sure was on the geeky spectrum of stereotypes, but as one of his t-shirts colorfully announced back in Phoenix, he was a geek and proud of it. Though he loved science fiction in general -and fantasy to some extent- he was never going to take the supernatural as his first option -no angels or Christmas miracles for him- and the idea of aliens leaving a very human handprint behind was just... well... ridiculous. Why would aliens disguise themselves as humans, go through all the trouble of bypassing nurses, doctors and security, to zero in a room of five children with different cancers? So, no room for little green men either.

Besides, whoever had left that handprint seemed to be very caught in human affairs. Or at least, in human emotions. He had concluded that after seeing the security tapes of the two young men—teenagers, probably—a million times and hearing the nurse's and the children's accounts.

The men in the videos looked tense, even a little edgy and were radiating nervousness by the ton. That last bit had been confirmed by the nurse, who had talked to the one that had remained outside. He was too eager for her to be gone, and for no one to enter that room. If he hadn't had 50 pounds on her, she would have inserted herself between him and the door, and then she would have made her way through said door to her wards. But of course, she was petite and not one inch stupid, so thinking there was something dangerous going on, she had gone to call Calvin, the security guard.

The kids' testimony was actually confusing. Well, the two girls' testimony, to be exact, because the three boys had been out of it until no one but them had been in the room. _It was an angel!_ one of them kept saying, _and he told me to go back to sleep! Like Santa would have if I had caught him coming down the chimney!_ The other girl, Sydney, had been more subdued about it. She wasn't so sure it had been an angel, she had confided to him about two weeks after the event, when all the Christmas decorations were being taken down.  
_  
He said he was just a dream_, she had whispered, her eyes on her brand new, super-size teddy bear. From what they had gathered, Sydney had been the first to be healed. _He said I should go back to sleep..._ After a slight pause, she had also told him that angels were supposed to have wings, and have long, blond hair, and clear blue eyes, and smell like cookies and wear white dresses. She had said all of this in one breathless sentence, and Hayden had wondered why should angels smell like cookies. So Sydney was deeply disappointed that her angel hadn't fit the picture, and therefore she was doubting that he had been an angel at all.

Especially when he had fallen.

For the longest minute that last sentence hadn't made sense. In fact, it wasn't until he had asked Calvin, who had entered the room with the nurse, what he made of Sydney's words, that the security guard had told him that yes, it had looked as if someone had fallen, taking one of the curtains with him.

If the window had been the obvious way out, the door had proven to be a little less than obvious to provide the reason why it had been locked. The doorknob had been melted. Fused. Mixed up in some twisted recipe of metal and wood. It didn't make sense. When had these guys had the time to melt the doorknob? Wouldn't there have been an easier and faster way to block the entrance? And if one of them had fallen, had it been because he had tripped? He must have been in a hurry, after all. Or maybe Sydney was mistaken, maybe he had purposely searched for something on the floor...

Maybe he had fainted.

He hadn't really thought about that much until last night. Dr. Lake's call had implied that their healer had been admitted to Saint Paul's Hospital with a high fever, so he was obviously sick. He had started healing Sarah Meyer and then he had faltered. He was just not up to the task, Hayden concluded, and his medical mind wandered through theories about healing taking too much energy in sci-fi popular culture. But if it was true... if healing sucked his energy out, maybe healing five children could be one too many...

In sci-fi popular culture too, the whole thing could mean that it would take him one hour or one year to get his "powers" back, or maybe it was some secret ritual, or maybe he had returned to his home-dimension. Science fiction was so convenient in that regard. Too many plausible explanations. And Dr. Lake's insistence that Mr. Healer was no longer in Saint Paul's was one more convenient obstacle between Dr. Hayden and his answers.

He didn't believe her, but there was nothing he could do about it.

So his mind returned to the realm of the here and now. All this sci-fi stuff had been already thought and discarded by the young pediatrician months –if not years- ago. Instead, in his mind he had concluded some solid facts about the Phoenix incident: First, whoever had done it had wanted to remain anonymous, for reasons unknown. Second, it had been fast, and it had been contained to one room only, so whoever this person was hadn't had time to go more places or hadn't cared. Third, the children were healed. No question about it. And fourth, whoever had done it had left physical evidence behind.

Physical evidence that Hayden was seeing just about now. Glowing harmlessly on the girl's chest, the silver handprint was exactly as the doctor remembered it. Not only had he seen all five handprints for as long as they had remained on the Phoenix kids' chests, he had seen the pictures dozens of times for weeks after they had vanished... and then some more on his trip to Saint Paul early this morning. He didn't even need to take the pictures out of his briefcase to know they were a perfect match.

He didn't know why, but he was also certain that Dr. Lake knew that the Phoenix Healer and the Saint Paul Healer were the same. That certainty probably came from the fact that Dr. Lake had been too evasive about it. Susan had said that the picture he had sent had been a bit blurry, and she hadn't gotten a good look at the man the night before, what with the oxygen mask on his face and all the commotion going on...

As he took the sleeping child's vitals, he was sure that his pretty colleague was protecting -maybe even hiding- the man who had left those handprints behind. He tried to feel hurt, but he couldn't manage it. Hayden was a stranger to this hospital's staff, and he had come on the heels of an enormous disaster, asking questions about a... well, a sort of paranormal event. He didn't know why she was covering for this man, but he knew he hadn't earned her trust either. After all, one phone call sharing "classified" information wasn't much to go on. He had to admit he had been a little bit impulsive when he had decided to take the first plane heading to this place, but by God, he just couldn't help himself. He needed to know, and she was his passport to that knowledge.

Well, he would have to work his way through, then. He was going to stick around as long as he could, and he was going to convince her that he was worthy of being in the know. Maybe the healer was gone, but his records weren't. Sure, Susan could say all she wanted about misplacing the chart or it being buried beneath the dozens of charts of the victims from the train derailment, but sooner or later the chaos would disappear and order would prevail.

It was just a matter of patience.

* * *

It was hard to tell what was happening.

It was harder to tell why he was supposed to care about what was happening, but something inside Max was very anxious about being alert and knowing where he was. A very small part inside of him, he vaguely noted, as he was effortlessly falling back into oblivion. He was just too tired to care, and paying attention required too much of his energy. Energy that he was already spending doing... something he wasn't too clear about, but that somehow felt right. He had known a second before, but now he couldn't remember.

That made him uneasy, not knowing for sure. He was barely regaining consciousness, and it was taking all he had to cling to it. A more urgent question jumped in his mind: What was happening to _him_?

Two voices were whispering somewhere at his right, sounding vaguely familiar, but Max's eyes remained shut, his mind in a mantle of darkness. He tried to place them both, and the only thing he managed was to get even more anxious. Whoever those voices belonged to, they evoked images of white walls, needles, and dizziness, along with an overwhelming feeling of being vulnerable. He didn't want to be around them.

He tried to move and found that he couldn't. His body was just absurdly heavy, making it impossible for him to even lift a finger. He faintly registered the bite of needles in his arms, and he stopped himself dead in his tracks. He didn't want to feel them. He didn't want to think what it meant that there were needles pouring God knew what into him. He remembered that he was supposed to be running, but he was petrified. If he tried again, the needles would feel more real.

Something touched his chest. Something small and cold, and even if he was surrounded in darkness, he had a very clear flash in his mind of something metal, light reflecting off it. He retreated into the blackness that was rapidly becoming his sanctuary, but the image followed him, morphing into a memory that had happened not so long ago, though for all he knew it had happened days or months before. He had no sense of time anymore . . .

.

_. . . He was waking up to a world that was not entirely defined and with_ strange beeping sounds. He was dimly aware that he was wrapped in some warm fabric but he didn't know why. He couldn't quite open his eyes –and the blinding light above was no motivation at all- and he felt exhausted; his body was aching all over as he was regaining consciousness. His chest felt as if someone had sat on him for far too long, making it hard to breathe. His head had a buzzing ring going on, and he knew that if he looked too closely into it, he would find himself nursing a headache. He had something pressing on his face too, but he couldn't identify what. He moved his fingers experimentally, and something stung in his wrists. Like a paper cut. But the feeling was numb. All of him felt numb.

He closed his eyes to try again to get his bearings from the beginning. He moved his tongue inside his mouth in a reflex to swallow, and not only did he find it dry, but he also tasted a combination of pharmaceutical flavors that made him nauseous to the point that he knew he was going to be sick. He thought that he had to roll over and find the edge of the bed so he could throw up.

Nothing happened.

He couldn't move –his body felt too unresponsive for that- but he wasn't throwing up either. Cold ran through his spine as his mind was getting closer to deciphering what was going on. His heart accelerated, and a beeping accelerated with it. His body obviously knew something his mind didn't.

"Easy Max, easy…" a man said near him in a soothing voice. Max turned to it, slightly opening his eyes, and he saw a small, round, metallic object coming his way. It wasn't until it made contact with his chest that he understood it was a stethoscope. And when that notion hit him, it was as if a train hit him too: He was back in a white room. He was back with the Special Unit. He was back with Pierce and his questions and his endless torture, except this time Max knew who he was and why he was here and he was sure Pierce wouldn't believe him anyway.

He was back in hell.

He desperately tried to move in the opposite direction, but to no avail. He was strapped to the bed, but even if he hadn't been, he just couldn't make his body move more than half an inch without a great effort.

A strong hand pinned his chest to the stretcher –and some part of him registered that it wasn't metal, though he didn't know why it would matter- and lightly held him there. It didn't really need that much strength; Max was barely putting up a fight right now, and he knew it. It was more a gesture for him to quit trying to get up than to restrain him more.

"The lights," the voice simply said, and Max was afraid to tell him he had no idea what lights this man was asking him about. He had not much idea of anything, actually, except that he was getting nauseous again and that his left shoulder was starting to hurt like hell.

The lights, as it turned out, dimmed down, cutting the sharpness of the room where he was. He was afraid to look, though, but at least now he could see that what was on his face was an oxygen mask. At least he _hoped_ it was oxygen that his lungs were receiving.

"Try to calm down, okay?" the man asked him, taking the stethoscope off, just to return two seconds later with a flashlight. Max closed his eyes to the light. It hurt him, and he was scared, and he wanted to move, and he was really, _really_ getting sick again. As it was, he was finding it mighty difficult to move his head to the left, opposite to where the man –agent?- was, away from the bright light.

"Still dilated," the man said, more to himself than to Max. His hands went unexpectedly to Max's left shoulder, and efficiently but gently he started to press the tender flesh. Max winced. His body had tensed as much as it could since Max had realized where he was, but as his shoulder was probed his hands became fists as well. The paper-cut sting in his wrists intensified with this movement, and now his ankles joined in it too, along with the awareness that there were needles inserted in his arms and the backs of his hands.

He needed air. He knew he had an oxygen mask on but he still needed air.

The man lifted the covers enough to run his fingers along Max's right arm, all the way to his wrist. Max kept his eyes shut, wishing this was all a goddamn nightmare.

"I'm Peter Shore," he said as he was trailing down, Max's skin chilling now that the blanket was no longer over his arm. "You are at a medical facility," he said with a calm voice, one that was used to dealing with people who were afraid, Max guessed, his breathing increasing as his need to take in as much air as he could became his central goal.

He was hyperventilating, he just didn't care.

As one of the man's hands reached his fist, the other was placed on his forehead. Involuntarily, his heart answered his unspoken fear, and the heart monitor was there to beep it for the whole world to hear. His heart was racing as if he were running for his life. In a way, it was.

"I know you're scared," the man -Peter something?- kept saying, gently opening Max's hand from it's loose fist, "but I'm here to help you." He placed his hand on Max's, just as if he was a long lost friend who was lending strength through that simple act.

Max didn't move. Didn't even acknowledge the man was talking to him.

"BP's getting higher," another voice warned from somewhere at Max's left, "Ht is reaching 180… maybe we should give him something..."

He contracted his hand involuntarily at that. He didn't want anyone giving him anything. He had no idea where he was, but he knew it was some place where the light was never going to shine through a window. Peter's hand responded to Max's reaction by gripping it in what was supposed to be a friendly response. The only friends Max needed right now were safer away from this place than by his side.

God, he hoped Michael was okay.

What if they had found him? What if Michael was somewhere in here? What could Max possibly tell them that would make them believe him? Would it even matter? Wouldn't they want to know how he "worked"? Wouldn't they make him some classified experiment subject? He gripped Peter's hand out of fear, almost begging him to believe him. His honey-like eyes found the blue ones of his captor. He was starting to gain mobility, and his left hand strained to free itself from the medical restraints, the effort costing him dearly on his wounded left shoulder. He wanted to take the mask off and tell this man that he had never meant to harm anyone, that he just wanted to lead a normal life. That he had no plans of conquest, or invasion or whatever the hell the Special Unit had made itself believe Max wanted. Hell, if it came to that, he didn't even want to return to Antar and claim his rightful place as King.

"I'm getting him Lidocaine," the disembodied voice said somewhere at Max's left. Some other Agent, some other man with needles at his disposition.

"Wait," Peter's voice said in a steely voice to whoever was trying to drug him, his eyes never moving from Max's. "Your heart can't take this much longer, Max," he said, his voice changing to a soothing one. "Just take deep, even breaths, okay? Everything is going to be okay."

He could hear Michael's sarcastic voice saying _No, it won't, _but at this particular moment in life he needed to believe it was true. Still, he slightly moved his head from side to side, telling this man he wasn't completely sure he could do what was being asked. He couldn't slow his heart beat anymore than he could tell in which direction his home planet was.

"You're doing it already," he said with a small smile, "just deep, even breaths, okay?" his smile broadened, showing perfect white teeth. Seconds went by as Max was trying to regain some control of his breathing, no one moving around him, not saying a word. Peter patiently watched him, nodding encouragement.

"That's it… Just deep breaths…" His voice was almost hypnotizing, comforting him. He wanted Max to get well, Max suddenly knew from the slight flash he got through their linked hands.

He felt lightheaded. The buzzing in his ears had grown exponentially all this time and the tips of his fingers felt funny. He relaxed his grip on the other man's hand as he started to feel darkness enveloping him.

"Max…?" Peter asked him, uncertainty coloring his voice.

Max's eyes started to close of their own accord, and as he tried to remain focused, he was finding it increasingly difficult to keep track of things.

"…_He's going to crash…"_ Max heard the voice he didn't like very far away. Before he lost consciousness, he thought that maybe he was getting out of here somehow… Maybe it all was a goddamned nightmare after all.


	11. Allies

**Chapter 10  
Allies**

* * *

"Is he really healing himself?" McConnell asked Shore, the first words spoken in what felt like an eternity. Being told over and over that things were classified was getting on McConnell's nerves, so he was actually surprised when Shore answered this time.

"We don't know," he quietly said, as McConnell watched the steady rhythm of Max's breathing along with the faint glowing in his chest. It wasn't intense, not like when Max had been bathed in ice to lower his fever and had started to "warm" himself less than 24 hours ago. This was more subtle, and was definitely not taking all of Max's energy. His heartbeat was still a little bit on the fast track, and his blood pressure was barely holding above too low, but his temperature had returned to 98.6, and for once all the monitors' alarms were silent.

Shore had been reading Max's chart all this time, quietly nodding or frowning, and was now starting to take a blood sample. "We know his biochemistry changes when he's using his… powers," Shore said with a faint smile. Probably "powers" was not a technical term, but it certainly defined nicely what McConnell had seen Max do. "I have no proof if he's actually healing or if his body is naturally recovering, but I'm not taking any chances. He just needs time for his metabolism to sort things out. At least this way he manages to keep his energy working in his favor, instead of wasting it."

"His body stresses a lot when he's doing something with… his powers," McConnell said, not knowing why Shore was suddenly so chatty, but certainly not wanting him to stop. If nothing else, they needed each other's observations in order to save the man in front of them. "Why didn't you just tell him to rest? He wouldn't be glowing right now if you had told him just that, right?"

Shore didn't answer right away. He waited for the blood sample to be completed and took the needle out, letting the IV flow again. Around it, a tiny half dozen other purple marks were still fresh, barely a couple of days old. How many times had Shore done this in the last 72 hours? How long had Max been under this man's "care" to begin with?

"Rest wouldn't have been enough..." Shore trailed off, looking at Max, the black circles under the doctor's eyes more pronounced now under the white light of the room. "The serum you just gave him over-stimulates key neurotransmitters while it shuts down others. The good news is that it stabilizes him, gives him a chance to recover. The bad news is that it makes him drowsy, leaves him highly susceptible to commands, and gives him a sudden rush of energy where his powers are concerned, like an adrenaline kick that has nothing to do and nowhere to go. We're not sure what it exactly does, or why he has this increased energy around. At least by telling him to heal himself he has a guide to what to do with it, without killing himself in the process." Shore looked at McConnell, his eyes serious. "It's far from perfect, though. He'll get exhausted in about an hour, and he'll need to rest without disruption. His symptoms will come back, but hopefully we'll manage to keep him steady until he can stand another dose."

"What do you mean, 'stand another dose'? For how long are you going to keep him like this?" McConnell said barely above a whisper, fear clear in his voice and his eyes. What could he do to save Max? What were this man's intentions?

Shore sighed, and for one second McConnell was sure he was going to say it all was classified. Which it probably was, anyway.

"He was overdosed with… a sedative, by accident," he explained, standing up. "For the past four days we've been trying to get it out of his system, but things just got more and more complicated. The problem is, I'm the only doctor reviewing this data, and I can certainly use a pair of fresh eyes right now, that's why I'm telling you this. The… copper serum I gave you seems to be working, giving Max's body a chance to get rid of the other drugs in his system, but it also takes its toll. I believe if enough time passes, Max will be able to get well on his own, his own healing ability will help him to do that. But if I give him two doses too close together, I don't know if his body will tolerate it." Shore glanced at his hand, the blood vial securely there. "Now I need a lab to run some tests to see if my theory is correct. Otherwise we'll have to start from scratch…" Shore moved from Max's bed and tried to pass beside McConnell, but the older doctor didn't let him.

"What are you going to do with him after that? And don't tell me it's classified if you expect any help from me." In his long career as a doctor, he had seen a lot of messed up situations, had had to stand between kids and their drunk parents, between injured criminals and irate cops, between families and lovers, and now it looked like he was going to be between a very ill unknown being and the mad scientist who wanted his hands on it.

"Max is under federal protection," Shore said without skipping a beat, maybe sensing McConnell's breaking point getting closer. "Trust me, no one wants him to get better and stay healthy more than we do."

"Let's say I believe you… Why was Max running away from you?" McConnell asked, still between Shore and the door to the antechamber. He was gambling here. He didn't know if Max was running away from him or not. He didn't know if Max had been living happily somewhere with Shore and if all his scars and bruises had a perfectly reasonable explanation, no matter how much McConnell doubted that. But if Shore believed McConnell knew more than he did, interesting things could come up.

Shore hesitated this time. "It was a misunderstanding," he finally said. _So Max _had_ been running away,_ McConnell knew beyond a doubt now. "And I can't tell you more. But if Max wakes up enough to recognize me, he'll tell you he trusts me. That's the best I can do. Now, doctor, I need to run tests. Max doesn't have much time if we have to start all over again."

"He can't be moved in his condition," McConnell argued, knowing full well that once Shore was out of here, the first thing he would do was call in backups. He had to buy Max enough time to heal. At least enough time for Max to wake up and tell McConnell that it was really okay.

"No, he can't," Shore agreed, thinking for a moment. "So from this moment on, you, your staff, and this entire facility are under federal protection as well. We'll make this a safe place for him as long as he needs it." Stepping aside from McConnell, Shore reached the door and entered the small space, beginning to get rid of the scrubs.

"They have a crisis upstairs," McConnell said, his heart sinking at the thought that he had made things worse.

"We'll keep it between you and the other doctors that have been helping him," Shore said, getting the last of the medical garments off. "Doctor McConnell, I really need your help to keep him alive, and we desperately want to keep him safe as well. We're the good guys here. And Max is too. You've done everything right. Tell one of the others to help me out at the lab as soon as they can."

And with that, Shore took off from the quarantine area, with a vial of Max's blood in his hands, and a very conflicted McConnell at his back.

* * *

It was all one gigantic mess. And he was right in the middle of it.

Taking a deep, calming breath that did little to soothe his nerves, Lieutenant Colonel Anders kept staring at the information in front of him. It wasn't a nice, organized pile of papers and archives, just as he would like. It was more like a dozen piles of black and white reports two feet tall, stacked in some sort of order that had lost its meaning some 28 hours ago when they still had had Max.

His task had been to find out the truth behind Max's words. That meant that he also had around 96 hours of digital footage to go through along with the reports, of which two thirds were of watching his friend Peter Shore and the other two agents trying to keep Max stable enough so they could keep getting information out of him.

Max had been missing for 18 hours now, shifting everyone's priority to finding him and the other hybrids if possible. Everyone's except his. He had stayed back in his office/room since they had last interrogated Max some 36 hours ago. He had actually been sleeping when Max had escaped. By the time the alarms had gone off, it was already too late.

Anders had been present at all of Max's interrogations since he and Peter had arrived, always watching from behind the glass that overlooked the sickbay. Always taking notes.

There were two kinds of information Max had given: The kind that could be traced here on Earth, and the kind that could only be validated by going to another planet. Obviously, that left Anders with only one avenue of action, and he was in the process of reviewing all his notes for additional scraps of information he could gather.

He needed to have everything straight before he started hauling in the closest available people to Max Evans, meaning his parents and Deputy Valenti, the former Sheriff Valenti. Out of all the parents, they were the ones Max had said had known the truth. Then there was the matter of locating Jesse Ramirez.

Then Anders needed to extend the net. The people at the Indian reservation were not going to be friendly, so he was hoping to get a good look at the cave inside and be happy with that in the short term. If they managed to get this River Dog person, it would take a lot of persuasion for the older man to give his secrets away.

Then there were the unlikely suspects. Brody Davis, who played an unwilling –and unknowing- part in Max's story for starters, and anyone who had been involved in any alien activity, even if at the time -and even now- they remained unaware of it.

The Special Unit had a very clear idea of what the aliens wanted, _invasion._ But everything Max had told them was very far from it. As of right now, Special Ops Units were collecting data from an abandoned town in Arizona. The preliminary reports had said that there had been hidden underground structures housing unknown destroyed technology. Max's story was starting to take shape, but where would it lead?

Anders had weeks ahead of investigating these kids. Teachers, friends, partners. Trips they had made. Places Max had mentioned. And then he had the Special Unit data, five decades of silver handprints and chasing alien killers supporting the idea that aliens were vicious murderers. The Pod Chamber Max had talked about was already declared destroyed, but special teams were combing the area and had already collected evidence of metals and alloys that didn't exist on Earth.

The Lieutenant Colonel looked at the computer screen with a tired expression. If Max was dead by now, what kind of retaliation would there be? Anders was the first line in investigating the truth behind Max's words, but if what the young hybrid had said was half true and now he was dead… _God help us all._

Shaking his head a little, he returned to his intended task. Taking the mouse, he went to the first file in the digital storage folder. This was the only interrogation he had missed, the first one made when Max first arrived and was conscious. Or at least conscious enough to talk.

On the screen, Anders could see Captain Whitmore taking Max's vitals. He had administered the LSDA drug for the first time some fifteen minutes before, and Max's response to the interrogation drug was favorable. Anders could actually see Whitmore's relief that something was going right. Of course, four days ago they didn't know the hell that was awaiting them.

"_He's coming around," _Whitmore said on the screen, talking to no one in particular, knowing full well that Harrington was watching from the observation room.

Max half opened his eyes, slowly and unfocused. He had had a high temperature just twenty minutes ago, so Anders thought it reasonable that Max was disoriented. But knowing what he knew now, Max just wasn't aware of what was happening. If no one had been around when he woke up, he would have probably just fallen back to sleep, and maybe he would have had a chance for a fast recovery.

Maybe not.

Harrington entered the sick bay a few minutes later, wearing scrubs over his military suit.

"_Can he answer questions?" _Harrington asked in a low tone. _"Simple ones?" _Whitmore turned to look at Max, who still didn't seem to notice where he was or who was with him.

"_You can try. But do keep them simple. He's more out of it than most subjects when they're given the LSDA."_

Harrington nodded. For all the reputation that preceded him, the Colonel was not a man that believed in violence for the sake of violence. He was probably used to working in morally gray areas all the time, but as he approached Max, it was curiosity that shone in his eyes. Taking a stool, he sat beside Max's right, giving the young man a chance to notice him there.

"_What's your name?"_ Harrington asked in a clear, comfortable voice. Anders wondered if Harrington had had experience using the LSDA drug and if this was standard procedure, or if the Colonel was genuinely trying to be nice with Max. After all, it had been about a year since Harrington had taken over the Special Unit, hunting for Max and his group, and now he had the hybrid in his hands. He could approach this any way he wanted.

Max slowly blinked, as if finally registering the question. _"Max." _

Harrington smiled in amusement.

"_You have another name… an alien name… What is it?" _Harrington prodded in a friendly manner.

Max frowned, as if he didn't understand the question. Then slowly, his eyes focused on Harrington, still slightly glassy, but more alert, as if he were sharing an important secret with the Colonel.

"_Zan,"_ Max said, but there was still a trace of uncertainty when he said it.

"_Zan. It's a strong name," _Harrington said, his gray eyes searching Max's face, assessing his opponent's weaknesses and strengths. "_Why are you here? What is your plan?"_

Almost half a minute went by before Max answered, _"I'm waiting. I'm hiding." _Short answers. Keeping it simple meant that the interrogation could go on at a maddeningly slow pace. But Harrington looked like a very patient man.

"_You're waiting for others?" _the Colonel asked, guiding the questions to what mattered to him, the invasion that was supposedly going to happen any time now. After all, it had been more than fifty years since the spaceship crashed, and nothing obvious was happening.

Max frowned deeper. _"No. I'm waiting to go back. I have to go back… That's the plan… I have to hide till I can go back…"_

Harrington's calm and comforting face turned a shade serious. What was Max talking about? Even now, four days later as Anders was watching this interrogation, he could feel that ice cold prickle at the base of his neck telling him things were about to change.

"_Go back where?" _Harrington asked, sitting very still.

"_Antar. Home. I'm supposed to go home," _Max tiredly answered, unaware that this sentence alone contradicted fifty years of investigation.

"_Zan… why— why did you leave… Antar in the first place?" _Harrington carefully phrased his question, the name of the alien planet sounding unsure in his mouth.

"_War," _Max said, the word echoing with a strange sense of foreboding. _"Khivar killed me. He killed all of us." _

How strange it all must have sounded in that instant, when no one had a clue of what was going to come next from Max's lips. Right at that point Max could have been a criminal, a rebel, a minority… someone who was killed for any number of reasons that would have no impact on Earth. And how could he have been killed when he was obviously very much alive right now?

"_Why did he kill you?" _Harrington asked, still calm, but his body was tense.

"_Because I'm Zan," _Max answered, his eyes locked with Harrington's, _"leader of my planet. He killed us, the entire royal family to gain my throne. Our guards took us, the rebellion cloned us. The ship… the ship crashed…?" _Max said more like a question, as if suddenly things weren't making sense to Max either. _"I don't… I don't remember… I'm supposed to remember…"_

As Max trailed off, Whitmore whispered to Harrington that he needed to take it slow. Harrington instead stood up, turned around and went to a phone attached to the wall.

"_Get me Washington," _he said, his voice still calm, but his posture tense as he waited for someone to answer on the other side._ "I don't care where on Earth Lieutenant Colonel Anders is. Get him on a plane heading this way right now. I'll send the briefing as soon as I can."_

Anders paused the recording. Even that early in the game Harrington had known he was tumbling into a diplomatic mess. Rubbing his hand on his temple, Anders took yet another deep breath. What the hell did he know about alien politics? This was a society where one kill someone, just to have him back a few years later thanks to cloning. What were their laws against cloning to begin with? Inadvertently, he clicked play again, the recording continuing as Harrington hung up the phone and went back.

"_So Zan… How did you become Max?"_ Anders paused it again, reaching for a notepad and a pencil. He wondered if Harrington had attempted to appeal to Max's human side once he suspected Max's alien side would not look kindly on humans. Zan was the goddamned _king_ of an entire _planet._ Zan had power. Max was a twenty year old, who had graduated from high school in a small town in the middle of nowhere and was running for his life. Max had fear. From that moment on, Harrington never again called Max Zan. Certainly, there was a tactical thought behind this reasoning.

Anders stared at the frozen image. It was the fifth time he was re-watching this video. Max had answered all the questions they had come up with, but that didn't mean he had told the whole truth. If there had been things they hadn't thought about asking, then Max just wouldn't have given them the information. He just wasn't up to it. The subsequent interrogations had been harder, as Max's condition had deteriorated.

Harrington had been careful to follow the technicians' orders, and had later called in a specialist, Peter, because losing Max was simply not an option. Peter had started to corroborate information as he talked to Max in the following days, casual talk to keep Max engaged or calm as they ran test after test. The problem was that the LSDA drug that helped keep Max sort of stable, also interfered with his ability to think clearly and give a more detailed explanation of what he had been saying. Often, he would trail off in the middle of a sentence, or he would take past questions, relating them to events that were out of order or unimportant. But it was because of those precise insignificant details that Anders was watching the videos again. Any scrap of information mattered.

His cell phone rang.

A Washington private number illuminated his screen. His hopes that it was someone calling to tell him Max was in custody vanished in a heartbeat.

"Hello?" he answered after the second ring.

"Tell me you haven't found him," a female voice said at the other end of the line. A female voice Anders would recognize anywhere, despite sleep deprivation and a world of worry.

"Ma'am," he said, refraining from calling her by her first name. Natasha Stefanova had been the youngest woman senator in history, and ten years in that position had not exactly mellowed her. She was sharp, acted decisively, and was the most straightforward person Anders knew, which was saying a lot. But most importantly, she was an ally. A good one.

"I'm afraid no, we haven't found him yet," Anders answered, puzzled at her eagerness to confirm that Max was still not under restraint. Practically _everyone_ wanted Max back.

"There are a lot of sharks circling here, smelling his blood, William," she said, cutting formalities. "If what I hear is true, then we do have a problem."

Anders frowned. "I'm afraid I'm not following."

"That's why I'm calling. There are a lot of… _talks_ going on around here. Most of us who are in the know agree that we need more information, whether he's a friend or foe. He has to be alive if we want more answers, and if his claims of being a political refugee can be verified, then we need to take care of him as if he were the second coming."

All this made perfect sense to Anders. That's why Harrington had sent for him, to hunt down any leads to corroborate or deny Max's answers.

"What hardly anyone knows is that there are still a few around here who believe the better way to deal with this is to execute our elusive prisoner. That will vanish all problems. They'll be able to sweep it all under the rug. If he's an invader, he won't be able to talk back to his home. If he's their leader, we haven't been exactly kind to him in the past, so this would prevent retaliation."

"That's insane," Anders whispered. "Even if he's a hostile operative we still could find ways of getting information out of him." Hell, even if he were to be subdued and placed in a comatose state, his biology alone was prize enough to keep him alive.

"William, I don't think you appreciate the full scale of this. If these people decide to act on their own –and they very well could any minute now- it's not Max Evans's life that should matter to you. They'll take him and every single loose end they can foresee. Bill," she softly said, "they'll target you."

* * *

Awkward would have been an understatement.

Dr. Alec Holt nervously glanced beside him to the man who had finally come to claim Max. Not a man in black, and certainly not a little green alien either, but he was one step away from wearing a HAZMAT suit. He was a doctor, and though he had said something along the lines that he was indeed a civilian, there was no mistaking the military air that followed his every move.

Was Alec going to end up in some military prison?

Was Max?

For the past fifteen minutes, Dr. Shore had been on his cell phone. He hadn't been able to use it down in the quarantine area, but here at the labs, he had no problem with it. Whatever he was discussing, he was taking it seriously. Speaking in hushed tones, Alec was just left wondering if his very future was being decided right at this moment.

In a way, it was.

When Holt had gone to relieve Dr. McConnell from taking care of Max, the young doctor had found a very conflicted neurologist. In a couple of minutes, Holt had been brought up to speed on what was going on, and he had actually needed to sink into a chair.

"_How did they find him?"_ Holt had asked, staring into space. It wasn't as if there was a law stating that if a non-human being was found it had to be reported, but all the same Holt was pretty sure he had been committing an illegal act.

"_I don't know, but we need to buy Max some time. Enough for him to recover and tell us what's going on. Keep Shore busy at the lab, he's expecting you to help him as soon as you can."_

Well, that was proving to be the easiest thing ever. Lab results were going to take at least a couple of hours. Through preliminary work was going to be ready any minute now, most extensive tests would call for specialized equipment that was still being use in critical cases for the train derailment victims. Shore would need to wait. Unless, of course, the civilian doctor suddenly started showing his FBI/NSA/MIB card around and then the Red Sea would have to part.

One thing they all agreed upon, though: Max shouldn't be moved. At least not until they had definite proof that his condition was finally stable.

"Damn it, Bill! How can they be so blind?" Shore finally exploded on the other side of the lab over his phone, making technicians raise their heads in alarm. Turning his back to all of them, Shore continued in his hushed voice once more, realizing shouting was not going to give him the privacy he was obviously trying to keep.

The machine in front of Alec beeped. Holt eagerly grabbed the paper with the test results, half expecting them to make absolutely no sense. They half didn't, but for the little he did understand, he tentatively smiled. Maybe Shore did have the magic cure, because things were starting –barely starting- to look better for their wingless healer.

* * *

Things were moving faster than he had expected.

It wasn't a surprise, really, Colonel Harrington thought as he started to shave. He'd known, from the moment he had been offered to lead the Special Unit, that when he actually got the prize, a lot of wolves in Washington would come looking for his prey. He had been prepared for that, he had been planning for it.

What he had not planned for was Evans's sudden royal background.

He stopped for a moment and stared at himself in the mirror. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he let go a half smile. He had not seen that one coming, and at his age, with his experience, it was a rather intriguing feeling; a clear reminder that one couldn't let one's guard down.

His face turned serious again, as he put pressure on the razor. It was already noon, but it wouldn't do to look like the victim of the mother of all hangovers next time he spoke to Washington via video conference. He hadn't slept much since Evans had been "rescued", even if Harrington himself was unsure if Evans was considered a prisoner or a potential refugee right this moment. Still, looking like hell for lack of sleep was not an option, so he had made a point of sleeping four hours and showering, and was now in the process of feeling alive once again.

Watching the red numbers on his alarm clock reflected in the mirror, he saw that he still had 23 minutes before his next call to Washington to brief them on what had been going on in the last 24 hours. A week ago, he only reported to the President, but since his invader had turned out to be a potential diplomatic mess, the number of people who wanted to have a word with him had escalated by the minute.

No one had ever said that chasing aliens was easy, but he'd gladly take that over playing politics with civilians. Military politics he barely tolerated, but that came with the territory.

All he had ever wanted to do was to protect his country. He had gained a reputation for doing the right thing at the right moment, even if those decisions would rarely see the light of day, and more and more he found himself working for covert operations that would be seen as an outrage in the public eye, but were necessary evils that someone had to do.

He had actually been intrigued when he had first been approached to lead the Special Unit. After more than 50 years of chasing aliens, the Unit had suddenly found itself unprepared to deal with the real threat. One blown up Air Force base and one sorely messed up attempt at neutralizing the subjects later, the Unit had faced a drastic change.

With the military involved, he had been offered to lead the chase, and there was nothing more gratifying for Harrington than the feeling of accomplishment that came from trapping the targets. One thing he had been very clear on from the beginning, though, was that he would go as far as possible to avoid killing the subjects. It just didn't make tactical sense. These were the only aliens they knew of, and they were the only source of information about a superior race that could easily take over the Earth. They needed every advantage, and killing sources of information was _not_ an advantage.

Hence, he had started a very thorough investigation of all the available documentation. Which wasn't much when it came to his targets. Many files had disappeared after one of the last Unit Heads, one Agent Burns, had been killed, and most of what remained was some backup copies and whatever the surviving agents could recall. He had plenty on the '47 crash, but fifty years of manipulated information wasn't much to get to know the aliens he was chasing now.

The other back up intel he had at his disposal were the medical files from 2000, which had been very useful to treat Evans this time. Yet they also implied that aliens weren't working on a full frontal attack, opting instead for other invasion strategies: If Evans was a hybrid, maybe the idea was to strike from within. How many hybrids were out there, looking human, just waiting for the right time?

To this precise question Harrington had been expecting an answer. Boy, had he been sorely disappointed. No matter how much the remaining agents from the past Unit had insisted on the invasion theory, Evans's interrogation had gone in a direction no one had predicted. The problem was, Harrington was far from convinced. Maybe Max believed this to be the truth, but it didn't mean someone else hadn't lied to him to begin with.

Finding the truth to this had become Anders's problem, though. Harrington's mission right now was to find Evans and the others as soon as possible, and to contain them until one theory or the other could be verified.

All this, of course, provided that Harrington's Special Unit was still standing.

He wasn't in this position for lack of contacts, and he had three sources telling him that there were whispered talks in Washington about shutting everything down and forgetting any alien hunters ever existed. Still, it looked like they just couldn't make a move until they knew for sure what Evans represented.

Harrington was too high in the food chain to feel real danger, but he wasn't going to turn his head away. He took seriously the responsibility of his men's lives, so he was not going to just close his eyes and let some paranoid senator or general pull the trigger on men and women who had done nothing but serve their country and their world.

He had swept many things under the rug, he would be the first to admit, but this whole thing was just too big to fit under any kind of rug. If Max Evans turned out to be the leader of his planet, then Harrington needed to find out what exactly he was planning to do once his people came back for him. That good relationships could still be established was the sole reason he had asked for Lieutenant Colonel Anders to begin with. Anders was a good man, and Harrington would hate to see him dead just for the sake of shutting everything down.

Once finished with shaving, he started to dress himself. He had always felt a surge of power when he put on his uniform, a sense of accomplishment and direction, of knowing who he was and who he could command. That he exuded confidence was key to keeping his men focused and committed, especially when faced with the circumstances that came with chasing aliens.

For one minute, Harrington stopped buttoning his cuff and stared at nothing in particular, remembering all too clearly how he had been witness to another kind of power, one that was terrible and astonishing at the same time. The kind of power that came with the flick of a hand, that was triggered by a thought.

He was remembering the first time he had seen Max Evans, barely five days ago. Though at the time he was receiving live footage from the squad that was chasing both Max and Michael, things had looked pretty under control when the sniper had aimed at Evans from a roof and had started shooting, barely missing Guerin as the taller hybrid had launched himself at Max to cover him. It was what came next, that green shield that stood between the tranquilizers and their marks, which had given Harrington pause.

They hadn't known about it.

But the chase was in full motion now, and if Harrington had thought the aliens dangerous before, he now knew he had a responsibility to bring them into custody no matter what. Before half an hour had passed, Evans was in an ambulance with a sedative overdose, and Guerin had vanished into thin air.

In the original plan, they already had a holding cell in a building close to the airport, just waiting for clearance to transport their prisoner. They weren't intending to wake up Evans until they had moved him to another state.

Still, because something was bound to go wrong, Harrington had pinpointed several locations to take Evans to several possible scenarios. That he knew of this particular medical facility where he was standing right now was pure coincidence. He had never anticipated a medical crisis of this scale with the prisoner, and certainly the snowstorm that was threatening the entire state and the two neighboring ones wasn't helping any.

He had been granted clearance immediately, and been assigned Captain Whitmore, the only technician stationed there who was skilled enough to handle their patient.

The next time Harrington saw Evans was through the glass overlooking the sick bay. Max had barely arrived at their improvised ICU, still strapped to the stretcher with handcuffs, and Captain Whitmore already in scrubs getting ready to transfer him to the more practical hospital bed. The portable monitors were beeping like crazy, two agents trying to help Whitmore any way they could. One was holding an IV, the other was looking for the keys to the handcuffs.

Harrington had narrowed his eyes. Could the hybrid be faking? And could his friends trace him, even if he was unconscious? His thoughts evaporated as he heard a loud "_Clear!_", both agents taking their hands off Evans as the Captain applied a defibrillator. Max's body jumped, and several things seemed to happen at the same time: The most obvious one was a green wave that briefly expanded as the electrical shock went through Max, like a ripple on a pond. It was very fast and dissolved almost immediately, and Harrington had been sure he had been the only one who had noticed it because he was looking at it from above.

The second thing happening a moment later was that green, spidery energy zip-zapped through Max's chest and arms, an effect they would get to see more of in the hours and days to come. But right at that moment, it was alien enough to make them all stop and stare. And it was in that exact second that Max had opened his eyes and practically lurched himself upward. Harrington had been sure he had been faking.

The handcuffs rattled with the force of Max's violent movement, cutting deep into his wrists, effectively breaking the IV needle inside his arm. The agents and the captain reacted as one to overpower him, making Max collapse under their weight. Harrington had looked right into his prisoner's eyes, and had found them eerily vacant, while five dots on a V pattern shone briefly on his forehead. The struggle was over almost as fast as it had begun, the beeping slowing down at a frightening speed, making Whitmore reach for the crash cart as the other two agents stayed on top, securing Max to the stretcher just in case he would react again.

All this Colonel Harrington remembered with crystal clear memory. He had since then accepted that Max had not been faking his condition. In fact, Max had barely been holding on to his life.

Finishing buttoning his shirt, the Colonel hoped Max was _still_ hanging on to his life. If Guerin had any say in the matter, he probably was. If Max had shown Harrington what their bodies were capable of sustaining, Guerin had shown him what control and focus could accomplish when applied to directing their power, even if Harrington had only witnessed that through security footage camera.

The red numbers reminded him his communication with Washington would start very soon, making him concentrate on the present. After almost 20 hours since Max's escape, all Harrington had to show for his Unit's efforts was probable hidden places that were being searched right now, but not one single confirmed sighting by his agents. That Max could be dead was a possibility that grew by the minute, but without a body, no one was going to sit still. In a very unusual moment, Harrington actually wanted Max to still remain hidden -if he was alive- at least until people in Washington took a definite position.

Who knew? If it came to that, maybe Harrington himself would make Max stay hidden until he knew for sure where Washington was standing.

He just had to find him first.

* * *

Wherever he was, he didn't want to move.

It felt like half waking up on a rainy Sunday, knowing he didn't have school and the bed was just the perfect balance of comfort and warmth.

No, it actually felt _better_ than that.

It was all hazy, and frankly, more than a little confusing, but in that state between awakening and falling into a deep sleep, Max just didn't care. He could go on like this forever.

_"Max…"_ he heard a whisper within himself, a sweet woman's voice that made his stomach rumble, and that almost convinced him that out there was better than in here. _"Max,"_ the whisper insisted, almost nudging him, and he was so tempted… Yet darkness would not let him go, and he just didn't have the strength to fight it.

_"Max, we're coming for you_," the whisper reassured him, and he took that as a sign that it was okay to let himself fall into sleep again.


	12. Powerless

**Chapter 11  
Powerless**

* * *

If Harrington and Anders thought they had it bad with trying to find Max, it was only because they weren't Michael Guerin.

Michael, who had woken up inside a freaking paper roll, had barely evaded a snowstorm, had dealt with three very hysterical women, and who had been able to find Max only to lose him again less than 24 hours ago, was way beyond himself.

He felt hopeless. Worse, he felt powerless to help his friend, searching once again frantically everywhere they could think of. His fear made him relive every second of the first time the Unit had taken Max, doubled up with the fear he had felt barely four days ago when they both had been escaping.

_How could they have lost him?_

And even if now they had a very good idea of where Max was, and were in fact getting ready to rescue him –again- the fear of these two memories crept to his chest, making it difficult for a second to breathe. He _could not_ fail again.

Liz hadn't seen it coming. They had known for a while now that her premonitions would randomly happen, most of the time to their advantage, but not _all_ the time. She had been trying to understand how exactly her visions worked, how to will them if she could, but clearly, she had missed the Unit landing on them.

Max should have left him and run. Hadn't it been enough to be in the hands of those monsters once? What the hell had he been thinking? They had been outnumbered, without a clue of where they were, but goddamned fearless leader Max had to do the right thing yet again. Michael hated him.

It should have been Michael. It should have been him the first time around with Pierce, and it goddamned should have been him now too. Michael was the strong one, the tough one. He could take on this kind of hell. Max would just bottle it up and… God, Michael couldn't stand the idea of seeing Max going through that again.

He wanted to explode something. He was one huge bundle of barely contained energy, waiting for either Liz or Isabel on the backseat to give him the all-clear. They would alternately try to contact Max, either by dreamwalking or projecting, never knowing which one would work. Most of the time it seemed that Max was too out of it for them to contact him, but they kept trying. Hell, as if they could stop trying to find him...

They were parked one block away from Saint Paul's hospital –the closest they could get with all the people trying to find their loved ones from the train derailment- and all his focus was on getting Max out of there and not leaving him alone for one second once he got him in his sight.

He shouldn't have left him alone. That was how Pierce had gotten him and that was how Michael had lost him yesterday. The memories were so close to the surface that he couldn't stop them from overwhelming him now, mere minutes before getting out of the car and getting Max out of that hospital . . .

_._

. . . The snowstorm had trapped them for two and a half days in the motel room, but it would have made no difference to them. It wasn't until that point that Liz had been able to establish a good enough connection for her to project and look around enough to lead them to Max.

The underground compound had been far more advanced than Eagle Rock had seemed to be, and a lot more agents –or rather soldiers- were guarding it.

Their biggest fear had been how much time had passed. Pierce had almost cut Max to pieces in less than 24 hours. Now almost 70 hours had passed, and it had been hard enough for both Isabel and Liz to get a hold of Max for anyone to be able to sleep. But once Liz had gotten Max, she had not lost time looking for a way to get him out.

She had lost him twice after that, but sure enough she had been able to see where he was, with enough clarity for them to form a plan. She had made a map with as much detail as she had been able to recall, pointing out where guards were stationed.

Their next biggest problem was the cameras and the security system. If this had happened a couple of months ago, they would have been screwed, but now they had a glimmer of hope as Kyle was growing into his powers, a very useful combination of short-circuiting and overloading electrical systems.

He wasn't that good at it, and most of the time he just ended up frying things –which Kyle thought was cool anyway- but if he could get rid of the security cameras, even though the Unit would know they were under attack, at least they wouldn't know _where_ to look for them in the compound.

It was a very flimsy plan at best, to rely this much on Kyle's ability to get them in there, but once inside, Michael would go for Max while Isabel created diversions. Without Isabel, Liz couldn't project herself, so she was relegated to waiting with Maria in the car, four blocks away in an abandoned warehouse, waiting for them to come out. Kyle would need to stay close enough to the electric lines to disconnect the security system, and would call the girls once he saw that Michael, Isabel and Max were on their way out.

That was the plan.

Maybe none of them was that confident this was the best way to act, but they were desperate enough to understand that time was running out and no one would help them rescue Max this time around.

Surprisingly, their plan worked better than they had thought. Kyle had managed to freeze the security system, locking the cameras into an endless loop of the last frame they had taken, while Isabel and Michael had worked together at digging themselves an entrance to one of the underground halls, since the main gate was too heavily guarded and too obvious to be of any use. No one had noticed they were inside until Michael and Isabel had started knocking out guards. The intruder alarm had stayed silent, which encouraged them as they both took different paths.

Guard by guard, Michael had gained his entrance to the sick bay, the most appropriate name for a place if there had ever been one.

They knew Max had been drugged. Every time Isabel or Liz had been able to briefly connect with him they had said Max had felt "off". Sick even, numb and slow. Once Liz had connected to Max longer, she hadn't been really around him, searching the compound instead to get him out, so she had only managed to say that their connection was so low she was scared she would just completely lose it. But when Michael finally saw him, he felt himself getting sick.

Underneath the blue blankets and the oxygen mask, Max's skin looked too pale, and his body too still. Michael had actually stared at him to make sure he was still breathing. Max's chest slowly rose as his eyes moved beneath his eyelids, different machines attached to his body, measuring God knew what. A constant beeping was the only sound that greeted Michael as he stood still, barely six feet from his friend.

Max's eyes finally opened, and he slowly but surely searched for Michael. Or at least that's how it looked to Michael, who snapped out of it.

"Max. Max, I'm getting you out of here," Michael whispered as he rushed to Max's side. Max didn't say a thing, just looked at him, his eyes slightly glazed. Michael wanted to shake him, to see life flowing into him again. He took the mask and blankets off instead.

Max's wrists and ankles were strapped with medical restraints, so Michael immediately started to unfasten them. Max was so cold Michael had to stop and look at him again. Max's skin was starting to goosebump now that the blankets were off. He was wearing very thin hospital garments, and at that moment he shivered.

Whatever happened, Michael swore he would make them pay. But now was not the time to do it. He hastily placed the blankets back and then continued unfastening Max's restraints. Once that was done, he was faced with endless IV lines and attached electrodes. The beeping which had been steady a minute ago was starting to sound out of sync to Michael's ears.

He was fairly sure something was very wrong with Max, but he was not going to stop now. He took the IV out of Max's left arm, and it started bleeding as soon as he got the needle out. _Damn it!_ Michael thought, as he pressed his hand to the small incision, willing himself to calm down and close it. This kind of healing was easy enough for even Michael to manage. On and on he went, detaching everything he found, healing and moving on to the next thing, as fast as he could, anger, fear and anxiousness building up inside him as the task seemed to take forever.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" A man's voice caught him by surprise after minutes of silence and beeping, yet by that point Michael was so furious and so worried, he didn't even need to lift his hand. With his eyes alone, he threw and pinned the man who was entering the sickbay to the closest glass wall, and he actually felt a little amount of satisfaction at the _thud_ that came from the agent in scrubs when he connected with the transparent wall.

"What did you do to him?" was Michael's cold answer. He wanted to kill that man. He truly did, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't already done that. Max's hand found its way to Michael's arm before Michael could do anything else, the first sign that he was really aware of what was going on since Michael had found him.

"Michael…" he whispered, and it sounded so tired that for one terrible second Michael thought Max was dying, "He's… a… friend…"

_No, he's not!_ Michael wanted to argue, but instead started to detach the EKG electrodes, making the machine go crazy as it no longer registered Max's heartbeat.

"Michael," the agent addressed him, slowly getting up but staying right by the glass wall. "Max is very, _very_ sick right now."

"No shit. I bet you didn't have _anything_ to do with that," Michael said as he finished with the heartbeat monitor and continued with the EEG. He would take care of the goddamned _doctor_ in thirty seconds, tops.

"If you get him out of here, his chances of survival are minimal. We're trying to help him, I swear we are. Max knows that, too."

Max's eyes were closed again, but it wasn't as if Max was in any condition to lucidly corroborate the man's claims. Max shivered once again, even with the blankets on.

"I'll kill you for this," Michael said as he briefly lifted his eyes to look at the man most likely responsible for Max's condition. "Max, can you hear me? Can you walk?"

Max's eerie glazy eyes opened again. He slightly nodded, giving Michael hope that Max at least partly knew what he was supposed to do now.

"Listen, he needs medical attention. If you get him out of here, he'll need more than someone looking over him. Michael, please," the agent said, taking a tentative step towards them. Michael pinned him with a feral stare, and he wasn't even using his powers.

"Take off your shoes," Michael said, logistics taking over emotions of justice and revenge. They had brought clothes for Max, but those were in the car. There were still at least a couple of blocks for his friend to go in the open air, and in the condition he was, Michael doubted it would be in Max's best interest to be out with flimsy clothing and nothing on his feet.

The agent froze.

"I know this looks like we're the bad guys, but you can see for yourself he's in no condition to leave—" the man started, lowering to take his tennis shoes off.

"Max would rather die than stay in this place," Michael said, believing that with full conviction, but feeling a pang in his chest. What if Max _did_ die? Did Michael have any choice? Michael took off his black sweater as fast as he could. The doctor was taking his shoes off now, his eyes practically begging Michael to stop his rescue.

"Max, can you sit?" Michael asked, his eyes moving between Max and the agent, a sixth sense telling him that they were running out of luck. Max tried to sit, but Michael had to help him, while trying to clothe Max at the same time with his sweater. Max became slightly more alert, looking around as if for the first time. Michael gently took Max's face between his own hands to reassure his friend he was getting out of there, but instead received a flash from him. Max was cold, and was thinking that he had seen sweatpants stashed somewhere at Michael's back.

The flash images barely made sense, and Max's mind felt fragmented. He wasn't glad Michael was here, or thinking he was getting out. He was centered on the fact that he needed warmth, and his mind was trying to come up with ideas of how to achieve that. Michael just nodded, pushing his fear of what was happening to Max to the back of his mind. First things first: He needed to get him out, and if pants were nearby, then he'd get those for him.

As he turned, he extended a hand, making every single compartment open, medical equipment and medical materials flying out at the force of his energy. Syringes, gauzes, small bottles littered the floor, and sure enough, packed in transparent bags, gray sweatpants met his eyes in the closest drawer.

"He's going to get a really high fever soon," the agent said, still in his position on the floor, his shoes right in front of him. "You'll need to keep his temperature low with ice water—"

The alarms went off right at that moment. Grabbing the pants, he ripped the bag open as Max actually sat with his legs hanging, more recognition weaving in his eyes. That had to be a good thing, Michael hoped.

"Michael..." Max said, his voice still barely a whisper, the alarm not helping any with conversation. Max shivered as Michael helped him with the pants. Without so much as a second thought, Michael extended his hand to draw the shoes towards them, the agent looking at something above their heads. There was a room, an observation room, and its lights were flickering. _Isabel_, Michael thought, as he finished with the tennis shoes, a wave of his hand making them fit properly to Max's feet.

Michael was fully expecting Max's weight once he helped him to get off the hospital bed. To his surprise, Max was able to half support himself, but his eyes were still somewhat vacant, as if he were trying to shake himself awake and was not doing a very good job of it.

"Max, we have to run," Michael told him, focusing on the glass wall in front of them, shattering it in a million pieces two seconds later. He hadn't had the stomach to kill the guards, and now faced with the doctor in front, he couldn't kill him in cold blood either. The fact that the man looked more terrified for Max's health than his own life did not help make the decision any easier. But since he didn't stand up to stop them, Michael just went right through the shattered sickbay wall. It wouldn't take too long before more guards would show up to shoot at them.

He was right.

Tranquilizer darts and bullets alike seemed to fly around them. "Run! Run!" Michael kept shouting at Max, in case he got another one of those leader ideas of turn around and surrendering while letting Michael escape. They finally made it to the makeshift door he and Isabel had made not even half an hour ago. He had no idea if Isabel had made it out or not, but now his priority was Max.

Max's eyes were still not really there. He was obviously tired, but kept running on his own, and for that Michael was thankful. It was easier to escape if he didn't have to carry Max's weight on his shoulders, even if he was entirely prepared to do just that. Cold air and darkness met them in the street, the place looking abandoned and forbidden. They weren't alone for too long, though.

Agents were coming out of the warehouse that served as disguise for that hell hole, and it would be a matter of seconds before they noticed where Michael and Max were getting out.

"Max!" Michael said, steadying Max for a second, "I'm going to make them follow me. You keep running that way, okay? Kyle is going to meet you at the end of the next block, and then Liz and Maria will pick you up. They'll know where to find Isabel and me."

Max looked at him, that feeling that he was trying really hard to wake up and failing still in his eyes. Maybe Michael was saying too much for Max to comprehend. "Keep running! We'll meet in a few minutes."

Max just turned to the pointed direction and kept running. Running in the opposite direction, Michael was able to divert attention to himself, shouts and shots behind him for the next four blocks. About fifteen minutes later he felt like a caged lion as he waited for Liz and Maria to show up for him at the gas station they had agreed on as a meeting point if they got separated.

But their luck had run out.

Kyle had actually fainted as he had over-used his own energy. Which meant that Max had kept running on in that direction until he had either been recaptured or had collapsed, neither option doing anything to calm anyone's nerves.

They had searched, Isabel and Liz, both desperate to find him again. By the time they had all gathered and figured out what had gone wrong, almost two hours had gone by, and the city was paralyzed by the train derailment. If Max was still out there with the low temperatures, there was no way he would survive.

Now, almost a day had gone by, but bit by bit Isabel and Liz had finally pinpointed Max's location, a goddamned hospital of all places, even if Michael had been secretly relieved to hear that. That agent's words, the desperation in his voice that Max was very sick, had haunted him for hours. At least Max had gotten his medical attention, but at what price Michael didn't dare to think about.

He was going to rescue his friend now, and he was going to stop feeling like a useless, helpless, powerless man, and God help the soul that came between Max and himself.

* * *

The results were taking too long, and Shore's patience was wearing thin.

He had told Billy that he hadn't found Max at the hospital, but that he had stayed around just to make sure none of the John Does at Saint Paul's was him. The fact that Washington could very well decide against Max's best interests had pointed his moral compass in a direction which made it easy to lie to his long-time friend.

But that had been an hour ago. Shore didn't know what to do now, though. According to the last analysis he had run on Max before Michael had "rescued" him, some 24 hours ago, Max's body had been starting to slowly but increasingly metabolize the drugs out of his systems. His kidneys and liver, which had been deteriorating at an alarming rate, had been holding their own.

He had now read the chart, the results from the tests McConnell's team had run. For a while there, it had looked like what Shore had gained during those three days had been wiped out when Max had been admitted. They had given him a myriad of drugs trying to help him, not knowing the delicate balance of Max's own biochemistry.

Shore had then talked to the younger doctor, to Holt, and had found out that Max had been using his own abilities, first consciously, and then just as a reaction to what was happening to him. Shore didn't know what to make of that. For all intents and purposes, in less than four hours Max had escaped, landed himself in a hospital, and had decided to at least try to heal a little girl.

He had known that the ZEDIC serum -the one that neutralized Max's powers- had been out of Max's system by the second day he had treated Max. He had seen his powers slowly coming back, so knowing that they were in full force now –or at least in a wider range- was not really a revelation. Without the LSDA drug though, it was a miracle Max had lasted this long. Maybe his body healed a hell of a lot faster than Shore had initially thought. That would explain a lot.

The few results that they had gotten back just now, the ones after Shore had given him another dose were actually better than what Shore had last seen, and that was reason to feel relieved. The idea that he would actually get to see Max make a full recovery just to see Harrington and his peers take him into some dark corner made him sick.

Truth be told, Shore just didn't have the power to call the hounds off. Billy was trying –of course he was, what kind of diplomatic guru would he be if he weren't trying- but the fact was that there were no guarantees as to Max's future right now. Max had been running for a year and a half, and maybe running was his best option now as well.

He looked at his watch, trying to decide when the next dose had to be administered. He had brought only two full doses, but now he was afraid of going back to the compound to get a third just to end up giving himself away. Harrington was a man who would miss very few things. It was dangerous enough that Shore himself hadn't come back to headquarters or called for any more information or backup to comb the place. But then again, who would have imagined he alone would find their alleged alien king?

That he had stumbled onto the conversation between two doctors talking about Max right in front of him had been a miracle. That Dr. Lake had claimed that Max had left had made sense with what the male nurse had concluded with Agent Walker hours before, except that it had been obvious to Shore that she had been lying to the other very thin and very tall Dr. Hayden. He still didn't know what part those two played, except that Lake was in on the secret.

Shore knew Walker had searched the hospital as best he had been able to with the crisis going on, but in a flash of inspiration, Shore knew Walker wouldn't even think about those other areas where not so common patients were treated. Like the burn unit, radiology, even maternity would be fair game to stash Max in since they were out of beds… And of course, the quarantine wing.

It had been a matter of being practical. Quarantine was at the bottom, and in his methodical mind, Shore decided to start there and work his way up.

Luck had been with him.

Not only was Max still alive and being treated, but there wasn't a hive of doctors and nurses trying to figure out what Max was, so anonymity had somewhat been preserved. It had taken a second more for Shore to notice that Max wasn't exactly on the recovering side of things. Shore had wanted to tear the glass wall off and just administer the LSDA serum right then and there, for an instant thinking he had found Max only to see him die in front of him.

It had taken a well thought strategy to get Dr. McConnell to cooperate, and Shore had certainly meant that they were the good guys and that Max was under federal protection, but all of that had flown out the window when Billy had called with news about Washington.

Now it seemed that it was Shore's duty to protect Max, at least until he was able to run on his own.

Speaking of which, now that Shore was thinking about it, where was Michael Guerin? He had risked everything to get Max out of there, and suddenly, here was Shore at Saint Paul's hospital, looking at the results of at least 18 hours of tests, and no one had seen any of the other kids. He had asked Holt, and all he had gotten was a blank stare. No one had come to claim Max, so either Michael had actually heard Shore and brought Max here seeking medical help or… Actually, that was the only thing that made sense.

So Michael must be around, waiting for Max to recover. Good. Michael could have the answers they were all looking for, both medical and political. Maybe Michael wouldn't know what was wrong with Max, but his blood alone would be enough to give them a baseline, and work to get Max in the right direction. And Billy would just _love_ to sit down and get some answers out of the whole Antar mess.

All he needed now was to wait for Michael to come.

And to live long enough to explain all of this before Michael acted on his word and killed him.

* * *

Darkness was withdrawing, but the things that came to his mind didn't make sense.

Fragmented images invaded his mind, some of little girls, some of chocolate brown eyes, some of three moons on the horizon. Sounds were coming, sometimes loud and clear, sometimes distorted and scratchy. They were whispers and laughs; they were questions or commands.

It sounded like an insistent beeping that was vaguely familiar and all around annoying. Light was fighting its way through his eyelids, and it hurt. Oh God, how much it hurt, enough to make him try to move his head, to escape the blinding whiteness.

His body responded, all his muscles aching like never before, a wave of tiredness running through his entire spine. His stomach tightened as nausea threatened him, but he actually managed to lie on his side, even if his entire body protested. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he sure didn't like it. He kept his eyes shut tight and tried to find a sense of self.

He felt like crap.

His mind wasn't getting much clearer, but a sense of urgency surged inside him. He had to run, and he had to run now. Fear of what would happen if he didn't run gripped him and he snapped his eyes wide open.

A man was actually leaning in front of him, gently resting a hand on his shoulder, talking to him even if Max couldn't make out a single word. He didn't know where he was, what was going on, or why he felt so sick. He just knew he had to escape, to get to an EXIT sign and to keep running because the other option wasn't something he even wanted to think about.

At the back of his mind he got the notion that the palace was being taken and he had to fight, but that barely made sense. Not that he was really trying to make sense of it. The moment they locked eyes, the older man stopped talking, almost sensing what was coming.

And what was coming was Max's energy.

Max didn't have to move. He could feel his energy around him, and he knew exactly how to use it. At least that much was clear. The first wave threw the man all the way to the glass wall, and almost knocked him out. The second wave obliterated everything he could feel inside him or attached to him that didn't belong to him, and as his energy hit the machines around him, they seemed to fry in a shower of blue and red sparks.

The third wave was supposed to heal him, but he was out of energy by that point. He only managed a few superficial cuts. Healing, even to his own body, required too much energy and concentration, and Max was mentally spent. He still had the urgency to run, and seeing the man trying to get up fueled Max's body with an adrenaline rush.

Max half sat, half threw himself out of the gurney in search of the door out of his cell, taking a few seconds to straighten and test the strength of his legs.

The fire alarm went off and water showered in as the smoke of the ruined machinery reached the detectors, and the sound was enough to drive him into action, shattering the glass wall in front of him as nothing else mattered but to get out. He felt dizzy as he did so, knowing he was pushing himself in the powers department. It didn't stop him though.

"Max!" the man shouted his name, again and again as Max ran through the opening he had made, ignoring the debris scratching and cutting his skin beneath his bare feet and making it to the stairs as fast as he could, an EMERGENCY EXIT sign his only guide.

Once he was on the concrete stair, he took the steps three at a time. He was already sweating from the use of his energy, but he ignored it. He saw the door at the other end and thought for a second that Michael was going to be right outside of it, waiting for him.

He thought he had seen movement, something by the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. He had to get to the door, he had to keep running.

He opened it, imagining a deserted street and his friends and family ready to go. He was more than disoriented when he opened it to find a white hall full of people in white coats and people on stretchers. The fire alarm was going loud and clear but hardly anyone was moving out of the way. He didn't care. This was not the exit and he couldn't risk being seen by so many people. He closed the door and looked up. The exit had to be behind one of those doors.

He kept running up, taking two steps at a time now, and opened the door to the next floor. Another hall, another sea of people blocking his way to the exit. He closed it and went one more floor up. And when it turned out to be the same, he went another one. The dizziness came back, even if he wasn't using his powers, and somewhere down there he heard his name being called again.

He panicked.

He opened the fourth door and launched himself out. He could no longer stay in the concrete emergency stairs. The fire alarm had been turned off by now. In this floor, there weren't that many people in the halls, either doctors or patients, but all Max was looking for was an EXIT sign. He had no sense about on what floor he was, even if the numbers were very clear on each door he had opened. He just hadn't been paying attention to that.

His mind backtracked when he realized he had no EXIT sign in sight, so he changed his strategy to hiding. The dizziness was becoming a problem now, and he was sweating more, feeling himself getting warm. The adrenaline rush that had led him here was wavering now, and his body didn't feel like it wanted to keep up for much more. He was aching all over again and despair was threatening to take over.

_No. _

He set his mind on his whereabouts, trying to find a place to hide. He just needed to rest. His eyes fixed on a half open door some 20 feet away, a dark room looming inside. Dark was exactly what he was looking for.

He walked, slower now, slightly panting, and reached the room without anyone stopping or even giving him a second glance. He got inside, turned around and closed the door, concentrating one last time on melting the doorknob so no one would come in here and surprise him. They would have to knock that door down before getting to him.

Finally feeling somewhat secure, he just slid down the wall to the floor, and rested his head on his right knee. He was too dizzy right now to care about anything else but rest.

Unknowingly, he had left a bloody footprint trail to his new location.


	13. Consent

**Chapter 12  
Consent**

* * *

Max Evans was not the only one who had been looking for a dark place.

Having pulled off a double shift himself, barely catching a flight from Phoenix, and pretty much running on adrenaline by the time he had reached Saint Paul's only to find that his mystery healing guy had disappeared yet again, Dr. Hayden had been all but dead to the world once he had seen little Sarah Meyer.

A nurse had pointed him to the staff room for him to wait for Dr. Lake, in the hope of getting some more details about the whole handprint business. Of course, with the crisis going on, no doctor was there, and the room had been left alone in darkness, with two very large, very comfortable couches at his disposal.

Hayden had just crashed.

Now he vaguely registered someone entering and closing the door, and reflexively he braced himself for the light that was bound to be turned on. When that didn't happen, he waited for the other doctor to crash on the couch in front of his. When no movement followed the door being closed, he just assumed he had missed something and that he should just keep sleeping.

Vaguely too, he got the sense that something wasn't right. That he wasn't alone.

He slightly stirred, and got more comfortable. For about two seconds.

Someone was breathing, panting really, and trying really hard to get it under control. His medical mind came up with a dozen scenarios for breathing to sound like that, and it was that train of thought that actually woke him up. Was he _really _hearing something?

Hayden opened his eyes and stayed very still. Darkness was all he could make out, as there was no source of light anywhere. The sound was coming from somewhere near the door, if he correctly remembered the room arrangement. It sounded like someone who had been running for too long. But it was also sounding… _off_.

He slowly sat up, and concentrated on the breathing pattern. It was definitely that of a man, and there was no doubt in his mind that this was a patient, or someone who should be a patient.

It had happened a couple of times that junkies had tried to steal from the hospital on Hayden's watch, so that was high on his list when he was trying to decide what to do now. What was he dealing with here?

Nothing he could have imagined.

He slowly stood and silently patted his way toward the man, who was clearly sitting against the wall, by the sound of it. Hayden lowered himself down, his eyes barely making an outline of things thanks to the light coming from under the door. At his right, he saw there was a lamp on a coffee table. He reached for it with his right hand. The softer light of the lamp would be preferable to the harsh white light of the main bulbs on the ceiling.

He turned it on, the yellow glow easy on his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he whispered at the same time that the man reacted to the light. He snapped his head to look at Hayden in utter surprise, raising his hand almost as if he were expecting the doctor to hit him.

Two things happened in the next two seconds: First, Hayden was _absolutely _sure he knew this stranger's face. He was in an awkward half-seated position on the floor, face to face with the man that was on that infamous Christmas video, with the hand that left silver handprints behind being extended right at him, almost as a final proof that this really was the healer Hayden had come looking for.

The second was that a very surreal green, electrical _thing_ suddenly formed between them.

Hayden actually fell on his butt as the energy shield scared the hell out of him, his eyes going round as saucers as the impossibility of what he was seeing registered. _What_ was he seeing to begin with?

He didn't have time to analyze it though, as the shield collapsed as fast as it had come up. The breathing became more labored than before, and Hayden locked eyes with the man, both fearful of each other, both silently expecting the other to do _something_, and not exactly something nice.

The man's eyes briefly closed, and he shook his head as if trying to shake off a dizzy spell. For all the healing he had been doing, he didn't look healthy at all.

"Oh my God, you're sick," Hayden said, immediately standing up and reaching for him. Of course he was sick, Lake had said so. He had been admitted to the hospital, for crying out loud, how could he have forgotten that?

The man actually moved his hand higher as he saw Hayden coming again, and for the briefest moment, the shield was back, only to dissolve in thin air, green sparks dying in the space between them, so fast he wondered if he had seen them at all.

Hayden froze in place.

Part of him addressed the fact there was something dangerous going on here, the same part that registered the fear in the man's eyes as he kept very still, sitting against the wall, all muscles tense. Hayden had to be very cautious about how to proceed, he realized, as the thought that he had just witnessed something completely unexplainable sank into his mind.

The other part of him just wanted to get next to this man and get him help.

"Okay, let's take this easy…" he started, noticing the beads of sweat that were falling down the man's face. He was wearing a hospital gown, so he must have been somewhere around the hospital. Lake had lied to him, Hayden knew, but now was not the time to get into that.

"I'm Dr. Chris Hayden. I'm the pediatrician who helped the kids in Phoenix you healed a couple of years ago," Hayden explained, lowering again to the floor, trying to not look so intimidating. It felt as if he were talking to a terrorized kid who knew a painful test was waiting for him.

"Phoenix?" the man said, frowning, his voice sounding raspy, almost trembling.

"Yeah. What's your name?"

"M-Max," he whispered, uncertain.

"Well, Max, what if I get you to the couch right there," Hayden said slightly moving his chin to his left without taking his eyes from Max. "I'm sure you'll be more comfortable that way."

He moved forward. Max tried to move back, though he already was against the wall. Max shook his head again, as if trying to clear his thoughts. Obviously, this approach was not going to work.

"Would you like some water?" Hayden asked as he saw Max trying to swallow. He was still panting, and looked feverish. He actually opened his eyes more at that, as if Hayden had just read his thoughts. Indecision showed in his eyes, and Hayden took that as a yes.

He stood up and rapidly walked towards the table in the corner where the coffee maker was stashed along with other beverages and a mini-fridge. He grabbed the first clean cup that he could find and filled it with cold water.

On his way back, he eyed the door as Max was doing the same. Any minute now, someone was going to come in and Hayden wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wanted to know this Max, but clearly he didn't want this man to be denied medical help. He had to call Dr. Lake and tell her he had their miracle maker here.

It took him less than a minute to get the cup to Max's lips, and this time Max didn't pull away. He was dehydrated, and obviously scared, and Hayden had to wonder where he had been and what had happened to him to put him in this state.

Max greedily drank, and coughed when he went too fast, and then tried to finish it all the same, completely ignoring Hayden's advice about taking it slow. But he eventually finished it, and Hayden took that as his cue.

"Okay, now we're going to get you to the couch, okay?" Hayden asked with a friendly smile. He doubted Max was in any condition to put up much of a fight, but by now he had pieced together that Max must have been hiding in this room. Hiding from whom? Dr. Lake and her colleagues?

Max reluctantly agreed with a nod, not quite looking Hayden in the eyes. They both stood up, Hayden helping the younger man, using the wall as support. He was definitely running a high fever. After no more than two steps, Max suddenly leaned heavily on Hayden.

"Dizzy?" Hayden asked, and Max barely nodded. "It's okay, we're almost there."

They reached the couch and Max sat, looking apprehensively at Hayden, as if he were unsure what to do next. Hayden lightly pushed him down, guiding him to a lying position. "I'm going to get you more water, okay?" he said, standing up and not waiting for an answer.

"Where… where am I?" Max asked from his place on the couch, closing his eyes for a moment.

"You're at Saint Paul's Hospital. You don't remember coming here?" Hayden asked, filling the cup again.

"Everything's… vague… I'm trying… to remember…" Max trailed off, exhausted.

"Here," Hayden offered the cup, grabbing a cushion to help Max sit up. "Don't try too hard. You're running a high fever right now. You need to lie down and let me get you some medicines, okay?"

Max was drinking slower now, his eyes not too focused on anything, but seemingly getting more comfortable in Hayden's presence. Still, Max shook his head 'no' at the doctor's instructions.

"It's the medicine… that's making me sick…" he declared, taking another sip. "Peter told me so… that they hadn't known…"

_Peter who? And who's _them_?_ Hayden thought, but what he asked out loud was, "Which medicine?" thinking Max was probably allergic to whatever they had given him.

"I don't feel very well," Max finally managed, the cup threatening to fall from his hands. Hayden removed it, and was going to let Max lie down again when Max's eyes became very alert and looked past Hayden, towards the door. "Liz…" he said, frowning.

Hayden turned to look back, expecting a woman coming into the room, but finding empty air instead. He noticed, though, that there was something odd with the doorknob, like it was misshapen or something… It was just… _odd_. He stared at it, realizing a second later that it was melted, just like the doorknob in the kids' room back in Phoenix. And in the middle of his astonishment at that revelation, right before his eyes the doorknob turned red for a second.

"Wha—" he started to ask, when it just flew open, and a large man came barging in, sending very menacing vibes impossible to ignore. Hayden stood in a heartbeat, getting between this intruder and his new patient.

"Get the hell out of my way," came the barely restrained voice.

Hayden swallowed, hard.

"Michael, wait…" Max feebly said behind Hayden. And then Hayden just _knew._ And his eyes went as round as when he had first realized who Max was.

"You're the other one. You were there with Max. Oh my God, it was the two of you!" Hayden said, moving forward. Michael fully entered the room and pushed past him without a second glance. All the menacing vibes meant nothing as Hayden's desire to get to know these two men came full force. "Those kids are alive today because of you!" he started to say, the speech he had been saying over and over in his head since Dr. Lake's call yesterday practically bursting out of his mouth.

"Max, can you walk?" Michael asked, kneeling in front of his friend. Maybe they were brothers. There was so much Hayden wanted to ask.

Max shook his head 'no' again. "Too dizzy," he answered.

"That's okay. I'll carry you if I have to," Michael said, fully intending on doing just that as he started to pass his arms under Max.

For the third time in less than ten minutes, Hayden froze in place. His over eager features turned to an expression of concern.

"You can't be thinking about taking him out?"

"The hell I'm not," Michael said, turning to face Hayden, and then stopping on a spot on the floor, his eyes coming back to look at Max. "Shit, you're still bleeding." Hayden noticed the blood stains on the carpet then, and followed them to Max's feet. He didn't have time to say anything as another man appeared in the doorframe.

"Oh thank God, you're still here," the older man said, panting as Max had been, but relieved to be there. He was wearing a lab coat, an ID hanging on his neck. This man worked at Saint Paul's and had obviously been searching for Max. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Max was not the only one in the room.

They all just froze in place.

"Michael…" Max said, breaking the silence, "I'm not… feeling… well…"

Michael turned to look at him, clearly trying to decide whether to lift him up and carry on with his original plan. "You're so cold…" he said instead, bewildered. Hayden himself automatically frowned. Max had been having a fever, he had touched him barely five minutes ago.

"Max…" Michael whispered, now scared, and Hayden's mouth slightly fell open without him really noticing. Max's chest seemed to be glowing underneath the hospital gown.

"I can't—can't stop," Max barely managed to say as he tried to hug himself. Michael turned to look at Hayden, so close to decide to ask for his help, and then looked at the other doctor, fear being replaced by anger.

"Oh hell, he's getting cold again." The man finally moved from the door and purposefully walked towards the two young men.

"Stay away from him," Michael said, pronouncing every word like a threat.

"Nonsense. He needs help and we're not your enemy," came his answer without the least concern for his safety. Michael tried to say something, to do something, but it was evident he was torn between what he wanted to do and what was best for Max. "I'm Dr. McConnell, your friend's doctor for the past 24 hours. I'm assuming you're Michael?"

McConnell reached for something behind the couch, but Michael didn't move from Max's side. Hayden didn't dare to breathe. Either Michael was going to let them help Max, or he was going to grab his friend and flee.

Michael didn't move.

"He needs to get warm so his body won't keep the glowing going," McConnell said as he stood up with a heavy comforter, probably left there for all the doctors who would invariably take the couch after long shifts.

Michael turned to look at Max as McConnell spread the comforter the length of the couch. Whatever Michael asked from Max in that silent communication, Max's answer was a couple of quick nods as he started to curl. He was visibly trembling by now.

"Warmth?" Michael asked McConnell, still guarding Max as best as he could from the opposite side of the couch. McConnell nodded.

Michael placed his hands on Max's shoulders, and Hayden's mouth dropped an inch more. Michael's hands started to glow. "It's going to be okay, you hear me Max? We're here now," Michael said, his concern almost tangible in his voice.

"And you are?" Dr. McConnell turned to look at Hayden, expectant. It was rather apparent Hayden was not exactly on friendly terms with Michael or Max since he hadn't moved since McConnell had arrived.

"I'm Dr. Chris Hayden, from Phoenix," he said, sounding nervous to his own ears. "Dr. Lake called me yesterday about the silver handprint incident four Christmases ago in our pediatric wing. I'm not sure if you are aware of that? Five kids were healed? So I flew here in the hopes of finding out who had caused it, or to at least see little Sarah Meyer and compare notes…" He was babbling, he just couldn't stop himself. He was a babbling person, his sister always told him so, and he babbled a whole lot more when he was nervous.

McConnell turned to look at Max and Michael halfway through Hayden's speech. Hayden did the same, even if he couldn't stop talking. Max had stopped shivering, but it was hard to tell who the glowing belonged to, Michael or Max.

"Can you heal him?" McConnell asked Michael, effectively shutting Hayden up, for which he was grateful. Michael was slightly sweating now, and letting go a tired sigh, he finally released his friend. It looked as if Max were sleeping now. Michael actually sat on the floor, almost as if he were catching his breath.

Taking this as his cue, McConnell walked around the couch and kneeled beside Max, taking out the ever present flashlight all doctors seem to carry with them from his lab coat pocket, and opening Max's eyelids to take a look at his pupils. Michael didn't stop him.

"I can only heal superficial wounds... Maybe a broken bone..." he barely whispered, still tense, still ready to bolt out of the room. "What is wrong with him?" he asked in a more stern voice. "What did you do to him?"

"Your friends at the FBI overdosed him with some sedative. He's not been responding well to any treatment they or we have been giving him, but we're getting there." Placing his hand on Max's forehead, McConnell nodded to himself, apparently satisfied with what he was finding. "Hayden, right?" he asked him, taking control of the situation once and for all. "Page Dr. Cramer here from the nurse's station down the hall."

"No. You're not bringing anyone else here—" Michael started to protest, recovering whatever inside fire he had lost when he had been warming Max.

"He's going to need all the help he can get. And that means you letting us do our job," McConnell cut him off, leaving no room for argument, even if it looked like that was exactly what Michael was about to do.

Hayden didn't stay long enough to see what Michael was going to say, either way. He wanted to, but more pressing matters were at hand, mainly getting that help McConnell had just mentioned. As he reached the nurse's station, he felt lightheaded. He had finally found the two people he had been wanting to meet for the past four years, but they were turning out to be very strange people…

Very strange people indeed.

* * *

The beeping of his pager took him by surprise.

Dr. Nikolas Cramer was barely getting out of surgery, his thoughts half with the patient he had just left in the OR and half with their very strange patient down in quarantine. It was the end of the 26th hour of this endless shift, but there was nothing he wanted more than to check on how things had progressed with Max since Cramer had been called to surgery a couple of hours before.

With such high fever, he was expecting all kinds of news, but he was fairly sure that if Max had died, someone would have told him by now. _Could he come back to life, like E.T. in the movie after they had officially declared him dead? _he idly wondered as he took his pager out.

Reading that he was expected at the staff room in the third floor was not, however, making any sense to him. Taking the elevator, he thought that maybe McConnell had finally decided to take a much needed break and was looking to crash in one of those very big, very comfortable couches. He could use some crashing himself, if he was going to be honest. They were both too tired to keep up for much longer, no matter how incredible the circumstances they were facing.

The door was closed, locked actually, as Cramer tried to enter the staff room a few minutes later. He frowned.

"Dr. McConnell, are you there?" he asked a bit loudly, not wanting the attention of the nurses and doctors that were nearby but having no other way of knowing who was in there.

Five silent, tense seconds went by before the door finally opened, a wiry, tall man behind it, his very bright, green eyes looking a little bit lost.

"Come in, hurry," he said in a hushed whisper, immediately making Cramer tense. The only reason there would be a stranger letting him in into a room where McConnell had called him was Max. So, the next logical question that came to mind was: Is this man one of the friends or the foes?

He desperately hoped that the second stranger inside was in the friends side of the list.

Almost as tall as himself, the much younger man was standing behind the couch, looking like a caged lion that was one wrong word away of attacking. He locked eyes with him, the same clear brown color that Max's eyes had.

"I hope you're right," the second stranger told McConnell, who was squatted at one end of the couch, where Cramer now realized Max was blanketed. McConnell was listening to Max's heart with a stethoscope.

"I think it's sounding better, but it's your specialty," the older man said, standing up, hanging over the stethoscope to him. "This is Dr. Hayden, from Phoenix. Dr. Lake called him yesterday because of the silver handprint incident in the pediatric ward some years back," McConnell said as Cramer took his place beside Max.

"I remember that," Cramer said, glancing at the slightly fidgety man, who half smiled. Of course he remembered, he had been the one to tell Lake about it in the first place.

"And this is Michael," McConnell said, looking at his watch. "He's here for Max."

Cramer lowered the heavy blanket in search of Max's chest, feeling Michael's eyes practically burning his skin with every move.

"His temperature is down," he noted out loud, turning to see McConnell, and then Michael. "Did you…?" he let the question trail, expectant.

Michael shook his head 'no' once. "That's Max's thing. What do you hear?"

_Subtle… _Cramer thought as he returned his attention to his patient. Michael was clearly wanting to hurry things up. Now, if no miracle healer had intervened, why had Max's fever lowered? It wasn't gone, it was probably around 100 F, but since it had been in 111 the last time he had been around, this was an abysmal change of things to the better.

"Why are we in the staff room?" he asked out loud as he concentrated on the sound of Max's heart. It _did_ sound better. What had McConnell been up to during his absence?

"He half destroyed the quarantine room about half an hour ago. We need to find him a bed. You think Cardiology might have one open by now?"

"Destroyed?" he asked bewildered.

"You're not moving him out of here," Michael said in a very serious voice. This time, all three of them turned to look at him.

"We cannot possibly treat him in the staff room," McConnell said, "not only can anyone try to come in at any time, but he needs more than a blanket and warmth."

"I know that, okay?" Michael said, looking like someone who was at the end of his patience limit and trying very hard to stay rational. "I can sense it from him. But it's only a matter of time before they find him," Michael said, his eyes going to Max's unconscious form, "and I can't allow them to get him back. I cannot risk exposing him in a hospital," he almost whispered.

"They're not here yet," Cramer said, standing now as well, not really knowing who were _they_. "And we've done everything short of a miracle to keep him alive and under the radar. We'll keep doing that as long as it's safe," he tried to reassure Max's friend. Michael seemed to be undecided, for the first time looking really young, fear creeping into his eyes. "He seems to be doing better," Cramer said in a more soothing tone, "but we need to make sure. He'll be safe with us."

Michael opened and closed his mouth two times in rapid succession, one hand in midair as if he were trying to make a point but not really sure which. He finally closed his eyes for an instant and took a deep breath.

"Okay, but you won't take him out of my sight," Michael said, his fierce look back. Cramer nodded in response.

"I'll get the room," he said, turning to McConnell and advancing towards the door.

"I'll get the baseline," McConnell said back, moving towards Max. Cramer nodded as well, and then stopped for a second. The only _baseline_ useful here was in Michael's blood, the only samples that would help them determinate what was wrong with Max compare to a healthy subject. Getting it was going to be… _interesting._

He continued to the door without saying a word, but wishing all the luck in the world to his colleague.

* * *

He had to remain calm. Anything else and Michael would flee, taking Max with him.

Dr. McConnell took a mental deep breath and returned to his patient. He had dealt with difficult parents and spouses, but he got the distinct feeling earning Michael's trust and approval was going to be on a whole other level.

"Hayden, there should be a free stretcher in the hall to your right," McConnell instructed, figuring that Cramer was going to take some time to get the bed in Cardiology and return. Hayden barely nodded and went outside. "Now, Michael. I need you to tell me everything you know that may help me help your friend."

Michael stared at him for two seconds, not saying anything. Was this going to be another "it's classified" round? He didn't think he could stomach that after Shore's vague answers a couple of hours before. Not with Max finally making progress.

"We don't really know that much about us," Michael finally said, passing his hand through his hair in a gesture that was half impatience, half anxiety. "We hardly ever get sick."

"What _does_ happen when you're sick, then? Have you gotten any fevers? Hallucinations?" McConnell asked, placing a hand on Max's forehead. At the rate this kid's body temperature went up and down, a few minutes could mean a real big difference. He was the same as before.

"We can tolerate high fevers. Around 113, I think," Michael said, frowning, and then froze in place, as if some fearful memory had just hit him hard. "Have his eyes turned white?" McConnell frowned back, not really understanding what Michael was asking. "As if he had cataracts, his eyes would turn white," Michael elaborated.

"No, not at all. They have been dilated, probably due to the fever, but not white. Why?"

Michael looked relieved. He sighed and closed his eyes. "Nothing. It means… nothing."

"He's gotten some sort of spidery, green energy running through his arms, does that tell you anything?" McConnell said, not liking the fact that Michael had withdrawn information. Michael snapped his eyes open.

"I got that when I got drunk. All my senses were so heightened everything hurt, but I wasn't running any fevers, I don't think," Michael frowned, looking at Max's sleeping form. "He didn't get any of that when he got drunk."

_Kids indeed,_ McConnell fleetingly thought at this unexpected bit of information. "Might have been some sort of allergic reaction," he said out loud. If Max's body was fighting the drugs like Michael's body might have been fighting the alcohol…

"What about the glowing?" McConnell asked, trying to get more symptoms down. Clearly, both Michael and Max had survived high fevers and spidery, green electricity.

"I'd never seen that," Michael whispered, worried, "he was so cold... We've never been so cold… He just couldn't stop it, could he?" Both men locked eyes, Max between them.

"I don't think he could, no. We've been warming him up or cooling him down since he came here, but we think he's getting better. We need to be sure, though. Michael, I need to take a—"

"I've got the stretcher!" Hayden entered the staff room, effectively interrupting McConnell when he was just about to ask Michael for a blood sample. Still, there was no way around it, and the sooner he got it, the sooner he would get the tests back.

"You _won't_ get him out of my sight," Michael reminded him as he circled the couch to lift Max onto the stretcher out in the hall. McConnell stepped aside to give him room. Michael squatted, getting ready. The doctor put his hand on Michael's shoulder.

"I need to take a blood sample…" Michael turned to look at him, probably to argue against more needles in Max, "from _both_ of you," McConnell said in his most calming and convincing voice. The one he used when he had to talk to parents about a very difficult surgery for their child.

"What? No!" Michael immediately answered, his eyes getting a darker shade of brown.

"It's called 'baseline'," Hayden said, startling both Michael and McConnell. "They need to know what's normal according to your readings so they can get Max to those readings too. They're flying blind without it. You'll be making it harder on Max if you don't allow it." Michael turned to look at McConnell, who nodded, and then back to Hayden, who also nodded.

"I've got the bed," Cramer entered, his sense of urgency contrasting with the tension building in the room, "it's an isolated room that was just vacated a few… What?" the cardiologist stopped at seeing that no one was moving to get Max into the room that he had just gotten.

"He won't be out of your sight, I promise," McConnell said, as Michael turned once more to look at Max, probably wishing he didn't have to make this decision alone.

McConnell looked at his watch as his other problem came to mind: Shore was somewhere in this building, waiting for the last tests he had run on Max, probably minutes away from finding that his federal protected patient was no longer in the quarantine room. If he told Michael that the FBI had already found Max then all hell would break loose. Not something McConnell wanted to be responsible for.

He had already been on the receiving end of Max's energy not even half an hour ago, but McConnell understood Max had acted out of sheer fear and desperation. Michael would be in possession of all his senses and in control of his energy, and he seemed very capable of fighting his way out of here if he felt threatened.

It did intrigue him, however, that Michael and Max seemed to be different in the things they could do and how they were affected by alcohol. And why would they not know much about themselves? What _were_ they, really?

"Okay…" Michael quietly said, lifting Max up. Whatever he had told himself, he didn't look particularly happy with what he had decided. More like resigned. All 3 doctors watched Michael leave the staff room, and followed him as he placed Max on the stretcher. They hurried their way towards Cardiology, right in the opposite direction of the labs. Yet another question occurred to McConnell as he left the staff room behind: For how long could he keep Shore from finding out about Michael?

And what would Shore do once he knew?


	14. Waiting

**Chapter 13  
Waiting**

* * *

"What is he?"

Holt's direct question took Shore by surprise. They had been quietly waiting for the last test result to come. Though he was itchy for news about Max, he knew McConnell would call him if things weren't going according to plan, and frankly, he was glad things were going in the right direction for the first time since he had been brought into the alien chaos.

He was also worried about Bill's call earlier and the fact that he still didn't know how to get another dose of the LSDA serum for Max. Worst of all, things could very well come to the point where he would have to take Max back in order to save him. And all of this he could not share with anyone, much less with anyone around him right now.

He looked at Holt, trying to decide how to politely tell him he couldn't tell him what Max was.

"I mean, you're with the FBI or something, right? Is he dangerous?" Holt asked, eyes full of concern with an edge of fear. But at least Shore was off the hook for explaining the details of hybrid biology.

"I don't think he is, no," he sincerely said.

"Is he in danger, then?"

_Yes!_ He wanted to scream, _him and you and us all._ Still, part of him was unsure about this. There were too many reasons to keep Max alive, so his logical mind had to argue the reasoning behind Bill's contacts.

"Right now our only concern should be getting him healthy, okay?" he answered, his own thoughts centering on the here and now, because no future plans could be made until Max could walk out of this place on his own.

"He was brought out of nowhere with that fever," Holt said, his eyes getting a lost look for a second, and then staring at Shore as if asking for some sort of absolution. "And the whole train derailment had just happened… I wish I had seen things more clearly, helped him sooner the way he needed help. But I just left him by the wall for two hours…" Holt practically babbled in hurried whispers.

"Dr. Holt, you did the right thing," he reassured him, "no one would have expected anything different under the circumstances."

Holt nodded, but it was obvious he was still in distress. A whole minute passed in silence between them, a minute Shore spent thinking how to get Max out of there.

"What… What's going to happen… once this is over?" Holt's tentative question brought a whole new wave of dread to Shore. If Bill was right, these people could have helped their last patient.

"You'll probably be asked to keep this quiet," Shore said, trying to take a less fatalistic approach, if only for his sanity's sake. _It's only a handful who want this,_ he reminded himself, Bill's words over the phone telling him exactly that. The great majority in Washington still wanted Max back alive.

"I figured as much…" Holt muttered, nodding more to himself than to Shore. At least it didn't seem like the young doctor wanted to argue against reason.

"You'll be debriefed, probably a few times. Records will be taken from the hospital…"

"As if this had never happened, I get it," Holt quietly said. "You won't get any trouble from us, you know." At this, Shore arched his eyebrows. "We've discussed it, while waiting for Max to get better. We knew someone, at some point, would show up asking for him. The best we could hope for was for Max to wake up and tell us what was going on, but with things getting worse with him, chances were that someone else was going to come... You know, we actually never thought that no one would come at all… Does he have family?"

_Yes, a very gifted sister and a very young wife, though we're not ruling out that the very angry friend might actually be his brother, _thought Shore, the information from the past five days coming foremost to his mind. He opened his mouth in that awkward way he had when he was not sure how to say things, when his cell phone chirped. He'd gotten a message, and sighing inwardly, he took it out and read it, effectively avoiding Holt's question.

_Washington is making a decision. Will keep you informed._

His heart accelerated, and his stomach felt like a ton of bricks. This could be either good news, or very bad news. A part of him argued that, whatever the outcome of this meeting, it wouldn't really matter. All it took was someone with enough rank or enough political power to do as he pleased.

In a more practical sense, he needed someone with rank and power on Max's side. Someone who could give him protection. Harrington's steely gray eyes flashed in his mind. The only reason he wasn't calling him was because Harrington was following orders, a predetermined mission to hunt down aliens and assess the threat. Harrington would be a wonderful guardian, but only if he was told to be one.

On the other hand, would Harrington _not_ follow orders if he saw reason? This Shore had already thought about, no more than four days ago, though at the time it wasn't exactly something he wanted from the Colonel. He had said as much to Bill, while moving Max from the sickbay to the MRI room that first morning after Max had arrived to the underground facility . . .

_._

.  
. . . "We cannot risk Max's safety by moving him once the storm is over," Shore was saying with an exasperated voice to his friend. Max was barely stable, and there was no way he would bet his condition would remain so once the snow stopped falling.

"We cannot risk the others finding him like last time," Bill argued back, trailing behind him some five feet, as if somehow afraid Max would wake up and shoot fire through his eyes. Shore wasn't exactly sure what Bill's take on all of this was, other than it was one hell of a mess. "Washington expects him to be moved into a secure area as soon as the storm passes," he continued, his words coming out in a rush.

"Harrington isn't pushing for it," Shore answered with a darker undertone in his voice. The Colonel had asked for an initial evaluation a couple of hours after Shore had first examined Max, and had concluded they would wait. But it had been the last words Harrington had said that had stayed with Shore: _It took his friends less than 24 hours the last time. Let's see how long it'll take them this time around._

A very heavy pause followed the last words, and then Bill spoke, this time in a hushed whisper, "What are you implying? That he won't follow Washington's orders?"

"Bill, I don't think Harrington would mind him staying a little longer if only to use Max as bait," he said as he arrived at the room. Captain Whitmore would arrive any minute now to help him with the test.

"But that's what we're trying to avoid, for them to find him," Bill said, confusion coloring his voice. Shore took one of Max's wrists and stared at the red skin surrounding the cuts the cuffs had made. Even unconscious and sick, Max was healing faster than a human would. At least his skin was. If only the rest of his body would follow suit.

"Maybe Washington, but I'm not so sure about Harrington," Shore said, his analytical mind going over why Harrington would say such thing. Even knowing that a rescue mission could potentially place Max in undesirable danger, what were the advantages of using Max as bait? "What Max revealed… Contacting the others might be the only way to save him, for one, and if we do lose him, we might never get a chance to find them again. It makes more sense to have them come to us than chase them blindly."

"The last thing I need," came Harrington's voice, very clear and strong behind them, "is for him to be a beacon to his alien friends." They both turned to look at him, Bill with a questioning look, Shore with a skeptical one. "He's the perfect bait," he continued, "but only if we're in control. This place was designed to remain hidden, not to hold prisoners. Or unwilling patients."

It was clear by that statement that Max's status was somehow blurry. Was he a prisoner or a patient? It didn't really matter. No matter what he was, he was confined to this place, to this Unit, for a very long time.

"It makes tactical sense," Shore said, not exactly challenging Harrington, but wanting to have a clear picture of what was going on. "To use him as bait, even here, but I'm afraid of what can happen to him if you are hoping the others would get close enough."

"I won't risk him, doctor, trust me on that. We'll move him when you say he can be moved. He's too valuable. I do believe, though, that no matter what you or I think, he'll still lead the others to him. Maybe not consciously, but they found him once in a place that was designed to hold aliens, and I don't like being in the dark waiting to be attacked. I _do_ want him moved as soon as he can, even if I'm preparing to receive his friends here as best as I can." He paused, those serious gray eyes looking directly at Shore to make his point, "How is he?"

Shore placed Max's hand back on the stretcher and focused on the portable heart monitor.

"He stabilized for a little while, but his blood pressure is skyrocketing again, and his temperature is starting to rise too. Captain Whitmore thinks we should give him another LSDA dose. I'm going to run some tests, but I think he might be ri—"

Max's heart sped up and his breathing increased too. His whole body had tensed at Shore's words, probably reacting to the idea of tests. For how long had Max been conscious, listening to them?

"Hey…" he said, trying to sooth Max, "you're safe here. I won't hurt you…" Max tried to remain still anyway, even if it was no use to pretend he was unconscious any more. Beside him, the thermometer indicated his temperature was rising. Maybe anxiety was playing a role here.

"I won't… I won't…" Max whispered, finally trying to move away from Shore, "I won't let them come…"

_You try to do that,_ Shore thought as he tried to calm Max down, _because if they do, I don't think we'll let them go._

* * *

"Goddamn it, Max! Stop shutting me out!"

Liz's frustration was so intense she thought the windows of the car would crack.

She didn't care.

She was at the end of her patience, and at the end of being rational. Max was barely a block away, scared out of his mind, and here she was, waiting for Michael to bring him back. Except something had happened that had convinced Michael to go along with a party of doctors and Max had just shut her out for the nth time.

Green, spidery energy briefly crossed her hands as she closed her eyes to calm herself down. They hadn't come this far to lose him again, and her sparking and destroying their car was not going to help one bit.

She hated this. She hated the waiting, the uncertainty and the fear. She hated her own powers, her visions that were so unpredictable and uncontrollable that at some point they just left her feeling useless. And her projection, that wouldn't let her hear or be heard, just seen by Max, for all the good it was doing now when Max was not awake, or letting her in.

Shutting her eyes more tightly, she was determined to not cry. She had not cried in four days, and was not going to do that now. Crying would mean she was giving up, that she was resigning herself to the idea that Max would never come back. Crying would make her feel hopeless, and she could do without that just now.

Max was going to be okay. He had escaped them once, and he would escape them now.

He had been smiling. The last time she had seen him, he had been teasing Michael about something she couldn't even remember. But she remembered Max's smile at her as he was leaving. _I'll be right back,_ he had said as he had taken his jacket, and then had leaned to kiss her. Michael had looked annoyed at the time Max was taking to say his good-byes.

A barely audible gasp consumed her from within, and she put her fist on her mouth to stop herself from sobbing. He had _not _been saying good-bye. He was going to come back, or she was going to make him come back, so she refused to believe that had been the last time she had seen Max.

Everything after that was just a nightmare.

She had felt it. She had felt the raw intensity of Max's fear as he had realized the Special Unit was closing in on Michael and himself. She had stopped breathing as her connection vibrated with such a strength she could swear she had heard Max's heart beating as he was running for his life.

She had looked at Maria then, who had abruptly stopped talking as she, too, had felt Michael's fear. _No,_ Maria had whispered, _no, no, no, no! _while Liz willed herself to go to Max, a feat impossible to do without Isabel's help.

After minutes, hours, an eternity, she had felt Max's fear take a backseat as his rational self took over. _I can't feel Michael,_ Maria had whispered, her eyes a mirror of Liz's own fear, except now there was the anguish of someone who is losing hope with every passing second. Liz had just hugged her as she had clung to Max's connection to reassure herself he was all right. She had wanted to say that Max would never leave Michael behind, but nothing could make it past the knot in her throat.

And then Max had vanished too.

_No,_ she had said, her heart freezing, her mind shutting down, all her senses becoming mute as all she cared about was finding that connection again. Even Maria's crying had been obliterated as Liz searched and searched within herself for some trail for Max's essence.

_Stay,_ she had whispered, thinking that Max could not be gone. He wouldn't leave her. He wouldn't let himself get… killed.

She would have crumbled right there if Isabel hadn't entered their room right that moment. _Something has happened!_ she'd started to say, and by looking at them she had assumed the worst. _We're going to find them,_ Liz had said, making herself a stone, the one who was going to keep it together and be the voice of reason. This didn't feel like when Max had died, and therefore, he was _not_ dead.

It would be hours before she could feel a feeble spark. Days before she could project far enough, and long enough, to get to see Max.

He had felt so numb.

At first she had expected the worst — that they would be doing terrible things to him — the brief flashes she had gotten long ago from that terrible white hell still vivid in her mind

But she hadn't found that. Instead, she had found a group of three men, where the tall, older one was obviously the leader, looking concerned. He was talking to Max, and Max would either nod or shake his head as he was answering yes or no, his eyes looking tired. But once he had looked at her, he had become agitated, the monitors showing Liz this as she had silently tried to comfort her husband.

And then, she was out.

She had lost count of how many times she had tried to reach Max. A few times she had managed to snatch moments of what was going on. She had seen them drawing blood, wrapping him up in either blankets or ice packs, discussing amongst themselves. It was obvious to her that Max was sick, and they were trying to figure out what to do.

As hours had gone by, she had started to feel Max's nausea, and thirst, and weakness. This scared her the most, because she wasn't sure how to help Max once they got him out, but all these fears she locked at the back of her mind. Leaving him there was not an option.

Never an option.

She had started to look for an escape route soon after. Less and less she would spend time at the sickbay, her own stomach feeling sick for a moment, just to be overcome by tiredness that half the time made her lose the connection with her soul-mate.

Besides, if Max became aware that she was there, he would invariably cut her off. Every single time.

Liz put her head on the headrest and opened her eyes, attempting to swallow the despair that had taken over her. Max shutting her out always left her with a sense of dread.

She truly hated this.

Beside her, Isabel's closed eyelids began to move. She had made a connection with Max's sleeping mind, but it didn't mean Max wouldn't shut her out if he could. It took him more effort to shove his sister out, so Isabel had a better chance at finding out what was happening to him, at least from his subconscious point of view.

_What are you doing?_ Liz wondered for the millionth time why Max wasn't letting them in. Maybe it was the drugs, maybe he was confused, maybe he was afraid they would get to see what was happening to him. Maybe all of the above.

She hadn't had more than a couple of hours of sleep each night, but her entire body felt tense, ready to snap. Her eyes hurt –maybe from the effort of not crying, she didn't know— and her stomach felt empty, yet she was not hungry. She just couldn't eat, the idea of food making her nauseous.

Ever since they had tracked Max down to Saint Paul's Hospital, Liz had been in a state of despair mixed with fear and… well, _hope._

Every single time she had managed to project, she had found that these doctors were also worried about her husband. She hadn't known where Max was, or who these people were, and for a moment she had panicked thinking that the Unit had caught him again and taken him somewhere else. Yet part of her felt relieved that Max was being helped.

Isabel had figured out that Max was in a hospital after one of her dreamwalks. Liz had found which one a few hours later. She had practically run to the door, car keys in hand, and Michael had slammed it shut before she could so much as open it an inch.

She could not go alone, for one, and chances were they could very well be walking into a trap if they were not careful.

And so they had planned. Liz had gone back to see the layout and point out escape routes. One of the last times she had projected, Max had been in an entirely different room. Had the Unit found him before them? She had frantically searched the room for signs this was still the hospital. Max had barely been awake, but for once he hadn't shut her out. He had lost consciousness before he had been able to.

But she had been relieved to find the hospital's logo, and recognized some of the doctors' faces. Once they had found a feasible place to hide Max after getting him out of the hospital –the train derailment having paralyzed the city, making traffic a mess— she had projected one last time to see where Max was and give Michael the right direction.

She had wanted to come, but if this was some sort of trap, she would be the only link to Max. Isabel had been left behind too, as she would be the only link to both of them. Kyle was still deeply sleeping after exhausting his powers, so he and Maria were now waiting for them in their meeting place.

When she had projected, Max was already running up the emergency stairs.

She had shouted his name so loud in her own mind, had tried to physically put herself in front of him and point him in the right direction with such conviction, that her head had hurt with the effort. But if Max had even registered she was there, he hadn't slowed down one bit. She had cut the connection herself, and urged Michael to _get Max the hell out of there, NOW!_ It had taken her more than fifteen minutes to regain the link, finding Max on a couch in some unknown room, with an unknown man.

Max had seen her then, had even called her name, she had been able to tell by the movement of his lips. And then Michael had entered the room, distracting Max's mind, sending her back to the car. And now here she was, waiting for Michael to get him out. But from what Isabel had seen, that was not happening.

Could she risk getting out of the car and going there herself? No, it wasn't what they had agreed on. It would be stupid too. It was risky enough for Michael to go alone, but at least he could defend himself.

She felt her hands tingling, a clear sign they were sparkling green, but she didn't even attempt to make them stop. If she didn't have Max safe in her arms soon—

The vision hit her so strong she almost felt like she was projecting without Isabel's help, like her mind had been knocked out of her body, sending her to some undetermined point in the future.

Max was standing, still wearing hospital clothes, and he was looking at someone on a bed, the room dimly lit. Liz couldn't see who, Max's back obscuring her view. And then a shadow of a man cut the light from the hallway that was spilling into the room, the form of a handgun barrel entering Liz's vision.

And then Max turned, his face tired but determined, his movement finally allowing Liz to see a little girl in the bed.

The shot made no sound, and as Max was falling backward, Liz lost the vision.

She gasped for air as if she had been the one shot, her eyes unable to blink. For two seconds she wasn't sure if she was back in the present or still lost in some other vision.

"Oh my God, they're going to find him," she said more to herself than to Isabel. Before she knew what she was doing, Liz found herself running through the street, running through the people, running through the ER doors, consequences be damned.

If Max stayed there, someone was going to shoot him.


	15. Guarding

**Chapter 14  
Guarding**

* * *

Michael stared at the needle, his blood rapidly filling the vial.

"I can't feel it," he said in astonishment. The last time he'd gotten blood drawn had been when Isabel had been shot some two years ago, and Jesse's doctor friend had made no attempt to make the experience pleasant. He reflexively tensed at seeing the needle inside his own flesh, a move he immediately regretted as he finally felt the sting. "Ou…"

"It only works if you remain still," the lanky doctor said in a warning tone, his eyes glued to the procedure. He reminded him of Alex, and maybe that's why he felt naturally inclined to trust him. At least to trust him as far as letting him stick a needle in his arm in the hopes of finding out what was wrong with Max.

In front of him, separated by a glass wall, the other two doctors were attaching electrodes and inserting needles into his friend. Michael felt helpless, a void in his stomach making him vaguely ill. Why had this happened to his friend? Hadn't he suffered enough already? Wasn't one time at the hands of the FBI more than enough?

He'd wanted to have his blood drawn right next to Max, promising himself he was not going to let Max out of his sight again. Ever. But in the end it was just plain impractical. The room wasn't big enough for them to draw his blood and help Max at the same time. Especially when he could still have a clear view of his fearless leader right from this side of the hall.

The needle was out, but the doctor didn't let his arm go. "I'll take another one," he said, all serious now. He'd seemed like the nervous, fearful type when Michael had first encountered him fifteen minutes ago, alone with Max. It had taken all the self control Michael possessed to not blast him. Now this man held his arm with a strong, confident grip as he studied the vein he wanted to pierce.

This time, Michael looked away.

His eyes kept searching the faces of the people around, looking for an enemy. He was expecting the FBI any second now, and part of him was ready to bolt out of this place. But Max had been so cold… Something was happening to him that Michael didn't understand, yet he knew that without the proper care Max was not going to be able to pull through.

"Keep your arm like this," the doctor said as he removed the tourniquet from his arm, placing a dry cotton ball and bending his arm. This time he hadn't felt a thing. "Told you it works better if you remain still," he knowingly said as he picked up the two vials of blood.

Michael stood up, extending his arm. "I'll heal in a second," he absently said as the guy was about to protest. Taking the cotton ball between his fingers, he dissolved it into nothingness without even realizing it. It was just a cheap way of getting rid of a tiny portion of his nervous energy. He went right back into the room.

"His temperature is starting to get low again…" the big, muscular doctor was saying, obviously worried, as the heart monitor was beeping too fast.

"I'll keep him warm," Michael said as he reached Max's bed. "You make sure to find out what's wrong with him," he said to McConnell, unconsciously arching one of his eyebrows as a warning. Even if Michael understood the need to keep Max in the hospital for the time being, it didn't mean he was not considering the closest exit at any sign of trouble.

McConnell nodded in his direction, and then turned to look at the cardiologist. "Cramer, can you cover for a while? I'll send Holt back from the labs in about fifteen minutes or so."

"I'll page you if an emergency comes up," Cramer nodded in approval. Behind Michael, the other doctor handled both vials to McConnell.

"He's going to be fine," McConnell said, locking eyes with Michael, and though his very cynical side knew there was no way McConnell could know that, he believed him. And it felt _so_ great to believe him. Now Michael only had to make sure Max was _really_ going to be fine.

"You better be right," he said, slightly feeling his fingertips tingle with unused energy. McConnell nodded, and hurried through the door.

Taking McConnell's place by Max's side, Michael placed his hands on Max's shoulders. He tried to ignore the connection that instantly formed, the one that felt more like a void than a bond, as Max's energy felt too weak, too out of sync with Michael's own. If he hadn't known better, Michael would have thought Max was out of balance. But his eyes were clear, and since they only had one healing stone left, it was actually a relief not to have to deal with that kind of problem.

Max's eyes started to slightly flutter as Michael managed to warm him up, the annoying beeping slowing down as well. Although he wasn't healing Max, he instinctively knew something was off. Max could put that something _off_ into something _right,_ that's how he healed. But except for superficial wounds, Michael just didn't know how to do the trick. He could warm up Max, but that was attacking a symptom, not the root of the problem.

"I thought… I thought you were going to help me with getting the thermal blankets…" Cramer said from the other side of the bed, standing very still. He hadn't been around when Michael had warmed up Max in the staff room, and there had been no time to fill him in, apparently.

"That's actually enough," the other doctor said, his eyes wide and his expression still star struck, as if Michael were some kind of childhood idol. Michael looked at the monitors, and found the temperature indicator. It read 98.4.

He stopped then, and let go the air he had been holding. No wonder Max got so tired after healing. Just doing this little warming trick twice in less than half an hour had actually left Michael vaguely lightheaded and sweating.

"Can you cool him down?" Cramer asked, interest practically sparkling from his eyes. "You know, in case his temperature goes up? It hardly stays where it should for more than a couple of minutes…"

Passing his right hand on his hair, Michael watched as Max settled into a deep sleep again, his eyes becoming still.

"No…" he simply said, that sense of helplessness sinking even further. He'd tried with Isabel countless times when she'd been shot, and her fever had remained as high as ever. She'd reached 113ºF right in front of him, and there had been _nothing_ Michael could do. Now it was his turn to watch Max going through the same.

"Okay… Don't worry about it. We've been dealing with that, we know what to do," Cramer said, probably sensing Michael's distress and wanting to give some comfort. Michael didn't care. "He's more stable now than at any time I've seen him before, that's for sure. We're going in the right direction."

Michael met Cramer's eyes, trying to discern the truth there. He'd never liked doctors in general for obvious reasons, but at least this man knew what they were and wasn't trying to put them on a metal table and dissect them. Still, the idea of needles and tests and all around feeling vulnerable was not doing wonders in the trust department. Maybe Cramer was right, but it didn't stop the feeling that the walls were closing in.

"When will you know if he's okay?" Michael asked, suddenly feeling the need to get away.

"Like when would we discharge him?" Cramer asked, frowning.

"Yeah…" Michael said, eager for an answer.

"Well, it depends on several factors, but Michael… where would you take him once he's out? Do you have a place to rest? Will you be able to provide good care, appropriate diet? Because otherwise, the longer he stays, the better it'll be for him."

"We don't heal like humans," Michael stated, fully intending on cutting Max's stay to the minimum.

"And you don't get sick like humans either," Cramer cut him off. "I take it this is not an everyday occurrence. This is serious, Michael."

"Keeping him from the FBI is serious," Michael said in a deadly tone. "You don't know the hell he's just escaped from. Don't tell me how to survive, doctor, because we've been hunted for a very long time."

And to think it all had begun with Max's damned healing ability. If Max didn't have that special "gift" of his, he wouldn't have healed Liz and their lives would be very different by now. It wasn't that Michael regretted it, because too many good things had come from that, but he couldn't help but wonder if it was all worth the price Max was paying right now.

When he'd found him on that couch, and McConnell had entered and started asking all kinds of questions about their health, somewhere in the middle of that chaos Michael had silently asked Max what he wanted to do. And Max had nodded that he trusted them, just as he had once said out loud that he trusted Valenti when they were rescuing him out of Pierce's hands and his white hell.

"Then you should stay as long as you can…" the other doctor said, his name finally coming back to Michael's mind: Hayden. He'd been quietly watching the exchange between Cramer and Michael. The star struck look had passed, leaving behind a more serious, thoughtful face. "I can't imagine what you've gone through," he quietly said, "but I think you'll be safe here for a while."

_Doctor Cramer, you're required at the nurses' station.  
Doctor Cramer, you're required at the nurses' station._

Both Hayden and Michael turned to look at Cramer. Cramer turned to look at Max.

"If anything happens," he said, turning to look at the other doctor, "I'll be right down that corridor. I'll only take a couple of minutes. Whatever it is, I'll come here and tell you."

Cramer left the room in a hurry. For all Michael had been craving for everyone to leave Max alone, now that only Hayden and he were here, he felt uneasy. What if something did start happening to Max?

"You were the one who stood guard…" Hayden quietly said as he moved to get a couple of chairs, offering one to Michael while Hayden settled his own at the other side of Max's bed. Michael curtly took his, and sat down by Max's right side.

"Stood guard where?" he asked, resigned to the fact that these people would start to ask questions and questions the more time he remained here. He wanted to stand, he wanted to run, to blast something, to _do_ something other than sit here, waiting for Max to get well. He hated waiting, but most of all, he hated answering questions.

"In Phoenix, four Christmases ago…" Hayden said, sitting forward, obviously eager for his answer. Phoenix. Right. Hayden had said this to McConnell while Michael had been warming up Max.

"Yeah… I did…" Michael reluctantly answered. This was a somewhat sore point between Michael and Max. Even if Michael had come to terms with Max needing to do this and couldn't deny how good it was for kids to be healthy, it still had been a reckless act by Max. One kid, okay, but five? What if they had been discovered? What if… Max had been ill...? Watching Max falling unconscious to the floor had been one of the scariest moments of Michael's life. Ironically, his fear came from not knowing how to help his friend, and that was exactly the same position he was in right now, except that they had already been caught by the doctors this time around.

"I want to thank you for the lives of those children," Hayden sincerely said, and Michael turned to look at him, frowning. "I know the media and some of the parents thought it was an act of God, or some scam to bring attention to the hospital, but the truth is, we always knew something extraordinary had happened, and there was no way we could properly thank whoever had been responsible. Until now."

"Max did it. I can't heal like that," Michael said in low tone, turning to look at his friend. What would he give to be able to heal Max as he had healed those children. Besides, Michael had been against it –there was no reason why anyone had to thank him. It felt even worse knowing Max was not getting his thanks even if he was right there with them in the room.

Hayden smiled at him. "Yet you stood guard. It was risky, for both of you, and you still went. I get to see those kids every month, you know? They are around ten years old now, very energetic, very chatty kids. They know they're special. And all that is possible because you helped your friend, even if you were not doing the healing."

This was making Michael feel uncomfortable. It was one thing to be praised by Maria and the others, but this attention from this stranger… "I'm sure Max will be happy to hear it…" he awkwardly said. On a more practical level, Michael guessed that if those children had started sparking around as Max had feared since discovering Liz had powers, now would be the time for Hayden to bring it up. Getting an answer to this question was probably the only good thing that was coming out of this chaos.

By this point, Hayden had seen him warming up Max twice, and had seen him healing the cuts on Max's feet before Cramer had arrived at the staff room. His powers were not a secret, nor was the extent of his healing capability, so there was no reason for Michael to be shy about the subject. Not that Michael knew how to be shy, really...

"So the kids are okay?" he asked, unsure of how to approach this. "Nothing… remotely _weird_ happened to them?" When he saw Hayden frown in confusion, he hurriedly added, "Max was never sure if he actually completely healed the last kids…"

Hayden turned to look at Max, with a fond smile. "He did a wonderful job… And knowing what I know now about his condition, I'm so surprised he tried to heal Sarah…"

"Who?" Michael asked, not following Hayden's meaning. Max had healed all five kids in that room, including both girls.

"Sarah Meyer… the little girl who's actually in a room down the hall."

Michael blinked. "What?" he asked, this time turning to look at Max. 'The room down the hall' could only mean Max's recent heroic act had been done less than 24 hours ago. He could almost, _almost_ start arguing with his unconscious friend. How could he be so careless with himself? Hayden's next words were not a surprise to him.

"Max tried to heal a girl when he was first admitted in the ER. He left a silver handprint behind. That's why Dr. Lake called me in the first place, following the trail of handprints from Phoenix. I wouldn't be here otherwise."

Michael placed his head in both his hands, and let go a long, frustrated sigh. "Of course he would heal a little girl even if that could cost him his life…" he whispered. Lifting his face, he glared at Max. _Such a Max thing to do, _he silently thought, half proud of his friend, half wanting to kill him.

"We might have a problem," Dr. Cramer quietly said as he entered the room once again. Michael immediately tensed. "Sarah Meyer's parents are here… and I'm not sure for how long we can keep the handprint a secret."

* * *

If Dr. Jay McConnell had had more time to think this through, he might not have been so blunt. But by the time he had reached the labs, all that was in the neurologist's mind was getting the two vials to Shore and to find what was wrong with Max.

Michael would leave at the slightest provocation, so they were not only fighting Max's drug intolerance, but Michael's need to protect –and flee with— his friend.

"Michael is upstairs," McConnell said in a low voice as he approached both Shore and Holt, wondering if the FBI guy would know who he was talking about. Shore's eyes widened.

"Where?" he said, ready to bolt. Obviously, he knew indeed.

"Slow down," McConnell admonished. "He's an inch away from getting the hell out of here, even if that means getting Max out of medical care as well. He let us take these samples, so I need you to help us figure out what's wrong with Max. You're more experienced with Max's biology."

He'd sounded coherent to his own ears, but clearly Shore didn't think it that way. He frowned and narrowed his eyes for an instant.

"Dr. McConnell, with all due respect, you have no idea how valuable Michael Guerin is right now to the safety of this nation. I _need_ to speak with him _now._ _Where_ is he?"

It was McConnell's turned to frown and narrow his eyes. "What?"

"Never mind, I'll find him myself," Shore said without explaining any further, walking to the door.

"Start on the labs," McConnell instructed to a stunned Holt who hadn't managed to say a thing. Only hours later would it occur to McConnell that Holt didn't even know who Michael was. He walked out of the labs and followed Shore.

"If Michael suspects you are with the FBI—"

"He already knows," Shore cut in, going to the elevator. McConnell felt himself going white.

"We can't risk Michael taking Max away. Not in this condition," McConnell said, taking a great effort in not shouting those words. The doors opened as they reached the elevator, making them both face a couple of people there. Neither of them said anything more as they went inside, Shore pressing the sub-level 2 button, the quarantine area. Even if McConnell knew Max was in the exact opposite direction, he didn't say a thing. The more he could stall Shore, the better.

They were alone in the elevator by the time they reached their floor, their arguing resumed. "Whatever you need to talk with Michael, it can wait till the lab results are out. At least if he decides to leave, Max would be in a better shape."

"We need Michael's side of the story in all of this. All we have is Max's, and he wasn't very coherent about it to begin with. At least Michael is in a better position to answer questions, convince Washington to give us more time…"

Shore trailed off. They had arrived to the quarantine area, which was pretty much half destroyed.

"Where's Max?" he asked, slowly and with a generous dose of fear.

"He's safe," McConnell assured him. "He woke up and panicked. Threw me to one side, broke the glass and ran for the emergency exit…" Even as he was saying this, his right arm ached and he had to move his weight to his left foot. It had been one hell of a fall, and it was only now that McConnell was finally catching up to the bruises of his body. He even had had to turn the fire alarm off, calling maintenance before more prying eyes would descend on the quarantine area, after Max had vanished through the emergency exit.

"_Where_ is he?" Shore urgently asked, anxiousness practically radiating from his body.

"Safe," McConnell repeated. "He was found by Michael. Max wasn't doing so well, but Michael helped him. And then let us take the samples."

Shore's eyes examined the destruction left. "He's better then…" he said, nodding to himself. "That's good… Michael willing to help is even better…" Shore almost whispered, building another plan in his head.

"Listen," McConnell said, sure now he could manage some sort of deal among all parties, "Michael has agreed to give us time to help Max as long as he doesn't feel threatened. Seeing you will just sent him over the edge. Give us time to do the tests. Give Max more time to get better. _Then_ talk to Michael."

Indecision flashed through Shore's eyes. "I need to speak with him," Shore said out loud, "you have no idea how much…"

McConnell slowly shook his head no. "If he sees you, it's over. Is there any other way you can get those answers? Any other person, maybe?"

Shore went eerily still, fixing his eyes on him. "It might work…" he slowly said, narrowing his eyes in a rather predatory way. "_You_ can get me those answers… and Michael will never know a thing."

McConnell swallowed at the idea. Not telling Michael about Shore was one thing. Getting answers from his much guarded expression and ready-to-snap body language on the other hand… was possibly beyond his abilities.


	16. Closer

**Chapter 15  
Closer**

* * *

Liz didn't make it further than the ER, but not for lack of trying.

She'd been blinded by the need to find Max, so the only thing that had been clear in her mind was the route from the car to her husband's room in the third floor. She started looking for the emergency stairs as soon as she went past the emergency entrance, people in the crowd barely looking at her as they all assumed she was one more relative in search of a victim from the train derailment.

The nurse's station was already surrounded by people: those waiting for news, those waiting for confirmation, those waiting for more people. Thinking it would look too suspicious if she just sped up the hall, all Liz could do was slow down to a fast walk, and try to look like someone who knew this hospital and exactly where she was headed. No assistance needed.

She wasn't the only one who was doing that. A man noticed her when he turned the opposite corner, someone she didn't even acknowledge in that moment but who didn't belong there, just as she didn't.

She saw the emergency exit sign above a door, and her heart skipped a beat. She hurried, terrified of finding Max too late, terrified of never seeing him again. Most of all, she just wanted to see him for real, not through her projected consciousness, where she could not help him, touch him, or even speak to him in comfort.

People were in stretchers, nurses and doctors were rushing past her, no one paying any attention. In their minds, if she wasn't injured, she was low priority. In Liz's mind, all she needed to do was get to those stairs. She was sure she would be able to find the staff room where Max had been, and from that point on she would trust her connection to guide her to him, no matter how faint that link to Max was feeling right now.

She never saw the man coming, much less his intentions.

Just as she was about to reach the door, the doctor who was coming in front of her silently grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her to the room right beside the stairs. In one fluid movement, not only did he close the door and clap a hand on her mouth, he also managed to turn the light on as he pressed her back against the door.

It was a janitor's closet, way smaller than the eraser room back at Roswell High, and the smells of all the disinfectant and cleaning supplies assaulted Liz's nose, along with the smell of leather from the hand that was stopping her from screaming. Even if the man wasn't wearing gloves, he probably had been a few minutes before. He was dressed as a surgeon, just as if he were coming out of the OR.

Gray eyes met her brown ones. He was taller than Michael, broader too, but he looked at her as if trying to make sure she was who he thought she was. Liz wasn't putting up a fight yet. At her sides, her fingers started to tingle. Soon she would have enough energy to blast him into the next room, but meanwhile she just looked at him, her back pressed to the closed door, the light bulb hanging from the ceiling making everything look harsh, including the man's partly shadowed face.

"He's here…" he simply said in relief in a rushed whisper, briefly closing his eyes as if thanking his lucky stars. "If you're here, he's here," he said, more to himself than to Liz, though the meaning was clear: He was looking for Max, and she had just confirmed to him Max was close by. He looked at her then, this time with a more intense look. "I'm Colonel Harrington, head of the Special Unit, and as of half an hour ago, I'm responsible for your husband's safety."

Liz stared back at him, this time raising her eyebrow. _What_? she thought, nothing making any sense, except the part that this man was with the Special Unit. She closed her hands into fists, her energy barely contained now.

"Washington has granted political refuge to Max. Things are still sketchy, but if Max was telling the truth, you have nothing to fear," Harrington said as he took his hand off Liz's mouth, expectant.

She didn't say a word.

In fact, she had no intention of saying anything at all. This had to be the man who was going to shoot Max. If she could just blast him into oblivion, the threat would be removed.

He slightly narrowed his eyes, a shadow of suspicion in his eyes as he took a step back. "There are people, Mrs. Evans, who did not want to give your husband the benefit of the doubt. If I could find him, so will they. I need to make sure Max is protected at all times. Now, if you're here, it means Max must be in need of medical care or you wouldn't have risked bringing him otherwise."

Liz frowned at that. It took her a second to realize the Special Unit had had no way of knowing they had lost Max as soon as they had helped him escape, so the Unit had assumed they had brought Max here. Her hesitation was not lost to the man in front of her, who narrowed his eyes further, probably sensing there was something off.

"Listen, Liz," he said in a no-nonsense tone, dropping the formal approach, "I have orders to protect Max, so I have to secure the area before anything else can be done," he said to summarize. He took her by the shoulder again, this time opening the door and leading them both out of the closet as fast as he had led them in. "Keep him safe," he emphasized the last three words, looking directly into her eyes without even blinking.

And then he was gone.

She should have blasted him. The thought came as an after-thought, but all Liz was really thinking were those three words: _Keep him safe_. That was the last thing she would expect an agent to tell her. He should have threatened her. He should have taken her hostage. Taken her prisoner. Even shot her. Except she was now standing in the open hall, watching his retreating back going down the hall, with no idea of what to make of his words, or of what to do now. Even the tingle in her hands had disappeared as her anger had been turned into confusion.

What was she supposed to do?

Go to Max and possibly direct this man to him? Stay here and wait? Go back and direct them to Isabel? The vision of Max getting shot played in her memory then, as vividly as if she were having it again. Was she responsible for it happening? Was her coming here what had led Max's assassin to his room to begin with?

_Keep him safe._ The words haunted her one more time before she shook herself out of her stillness. The vision was clear: Max would get shot in the hospital. All she had to do was to get him the hell out of here.

And so, she opened the emergency stairs door, and ran towards Max once again.

* * *

For the first time in five days, Isabel was finding a clear path into Max's dreams, a path she desperately clung to with all her being. For once too, he wasn't fighting her or closing her off. When Liz had left the car, Isabel hadn't felt a thing.

Max's mind was calm. Still drowsy, slow, but also aware. His dream had lost that distorted, dizzy quality it had had since he'd been taken. He was lying on his bed in his old room at their parents' house, staring at the ceiling, the Counting Crows playing somewhere in the back.

"Max?" Isabel said, afraid of losing him.

Max looked at her, frowning, as if he were trying to make sense of why she was suddenly there. Then he frowned deeper, looking at a random point at his left.

"Something's happening…" he said barely above a whisper, not quiet afraid but rather confused.

All the dreams Isabel had encountered before had been about Max in that place where they had taken him. They always were a version of what he was going through, something that had shattered Isabel's heart again and again but that she'd had to overcome in order to help her brother. That Max was not dreaming about the hospital now was too unusual for her liking.

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asked, worrying what was happening to Max's mind. Was he withdrawing from reality now? Seeking a past sanctuary, as his room had once been?

Max looked at her for a second, and then moved his eyes to the floor again. "Someone told me to rest… So I just… came here…" he said, the frown returning to his face. Then, slowly, he raised his eyes to her, his mouth slightly opening as some sort of realization hit him. "This isn't real…" he said, his eyes rounding as he said this out loud.

"I'm real," Isabel said as she sat next to him. Max sat too, the music dying as they both looked at each other.

"You're dreamwalking me…" it wasn't a question, yet Isabel nodded to him. She wasn't sure how to handle this. How to tell Max what reality entailed right this moment for him was not exactly what she wanted to do. Still, her brother was trying to remember now, and she waited in silence until he either remembered on his own or asked her to help.

"He's been telling me to rest… for days now…" Max said, trying to follow backward his last memory of a voice that had lured him into the safety of his room. And although he had been resting here, some part of Max must have known something was amiss. He only listened to the Counting Crows when he was upset.

A tall, thin, 40-something man materialized in the corner of the room, wearing a white lab coat of all things. He stood there, looking concerned rather than menacing. Max looked at him, trying to place him.

"He's worried about me…" Max whispered, as if he wasn't sure his memories could be trusted. Isabel certainly wasn't. This was a man who she was sure had been torturing him. "I think…" Max said turning to look at her, "I think I'm sick…"

The room changed then, suddenly and drastically, morphing into the sickbay where she'd seen him from the observation room the day before. Max gasped as more memories rushed in. "I told him he was making me sick, but he said he was just trying to help me…" His casual clothing also changed to hospital garments. "I was so cold…" he said, standing. "And then so warm…"

The dream quality started to shift, too. Isabel felt as if the air in the room had gained weight, oppressing her. She started to sweat, feeling hot now. She shook her head. This was Max's dream, it shouldn't affect her this way, yet she couldn't help it. She looked at him to tell him to stop it, but Max was looking at the other man who had remained silent and still all this time.

"He was dragged in here in the middle of the night…" Max said, looking tired now. Whatever awareness he had been having when she had arrived in his dream, it was slipping now. "I kept getting flashes of him. They're all afraid I'll die…" he stopped looking at the other man, and turned to look at her, frowning. "But I'm no longer here…"

"No," Isabel answered, puzzled as to the flashes Max had gotten, but wanting to get Max ready to escape with Michael. "You're in a hospital room. Michael is with you in case you need to get out. Do you understand that?" Isabel added, as Max grabbed the wall for balance. He was getting dizzy again.

"I didn't want you to come," he absently said as the room changed again. Some sort of living room. Two long couches, magazines, a small fridge. This was the last memory Max had of his whereabouts, and it matched Liz's description of her last projection. He turned to look at her again, his eyes sad now. "I didn't want them to use me as bait."

Whatever they had done to him, she would make them pay. She went to Max and fiercely hugged him. "Do you think we would leave you there?" she whispered. Since the moment she'd felt Michael's connection disappear five days ago, Isabel had felt as if her heart had been ripped in two. When she'd lost Max's as well, she thought she would collapse from the pain.

It had been worse than thinking Michael was dying of that Indian fever, or thinking Max had died in that fire at MetaChem. It had been worse because this time they had both vanished, at almost exactly the same time, leaving her with an abysmal hole where her heart had once been. They were gone. Just gone. Only Liz's assurance that she had not felt Max die had kept Isabel sane.

Learning a few hours later that Michael was safe had been a relief beyond measure, but knowing without a doubt that Max was back in that hell… She hugged him tighter now. She was never going to let him go. _Ever._

He hugged her back, though not as tight. "I think Michael is already here…" he whispered back, the room getting dimmer as if someone was slowly turning the lights off. She nodded, but didn't let him go.

"He was going to get you but…" Isabel wasn't sure but what. The last time she'd been able to glimpse Max's mind, she'd seen Michael was there, warming him up. It had been a dizzy, blurry distortion of reality, but good enough to let her know Michael was already there. And for some reason still staying there.

"It's okay," Max reassured her, his hand soothing her back. "I told him it was okay…" Max seemed distracted again, the room almost submerged in shadows now. "I think I'm still sick," he finally said out loud, confused. Then, "should I be running?"

_Yes!_ Isabel wanted to say. _Run out of that place, out of their hands, and be here with me for real._ Except reality included a whole set of fears with that thought: If Max was really sick, how could they heal him? How did one heal a healer? And how would they keep losing the Special Unit with Max unable to keep running?

"Not now, Max," Isabel answered him, finally letting him go and guiding him to the couch. "But I'll be here until Michael wakes you up and it's time for you to run."

_And when that happens_, Isabel privately thought, _I'll be running to you, too. There's no way I'm losing you again, little brother. No way in hell I'm letting them catch you again._

* * *

Colonel Harrington's day was starting to look brighter, though he wasn't holding his breath for it to stay that way.

It had been a very tense debriefing regarding how Max Evans had escaped the underground medical facility and what was being done to get him back. Washington was still undecided on what to believe about Max's claims, but it was pretty obvious the majority wanted him alive.

By the time the meeting had been over, Harrington had been dismissed with orders of getting Max back no matter what. They were still discussing whether or not to grant political refuge, but he had no time to waste listening to them go over the same things again and again. All he was sure about was that he had to get them all. Whatever Max was, friend, foe, or king, his status would certainly extend to his sister and friend, not to mention his wife. The hunt was on again, and Harrington's determination was doubled.

His first action had been to review what had been happening during his absence, and among all the false reports and fruitless searching, it was just odd that the only civilian aboard his Unit had spent the better part of three hours inside Saint Paul's hospital grounds.

Tracking Shore had been easy. He was carrying the cell phone he had been given when he'd decided to go out in search of his patient. Two tips had separately come confirming Max's presence at that hospital, and both had been looked into and proven false.

For one second, Harrington had wondered if maybe Shore had stayed at the hospital to help the train victims, but it seemed unlikely when Shore's time could be spent looking for Max. For all the three days Max had been under his care, Shore had certainly developed an attachment for his otherworldly patient. Shore also knew what was hanging in the balance, which would make finding Max his top priority.

With clear grey eyes, the Colonel swept the map of all the places that had been searched: motels, abandoned warehouses, shelters. And hospitals. Anywhere where Max could rest and regain his strength. Anywhere they could hide their dying friend.

There had been some promising leads. Some calls from the fliers they had stuck to walls all over the place, a risky move but well worth it. A couple of agents had spotted some guy who had a strong resemblance to their fugitive hybrid. But nothing was substantial. Nothing led anywhere.

So looking at the records of where Shore had spent his time, Harrington's analytical mind traced possible scenarios as to why Shore was not reporting back.

As Harrington had shuffled through the reports, he had spotted evidence that Shore actually _had_ reported back. The head of the Special Unit slowly read the transcript of Shore's and Lieutenant Colonel Anders's latest phone call, and was not surprised at learning that Anders knew about the power struggle going on in higher places. What did surprise him was that Anders knew it was possible that someone was going after Max no matter what Washington would decide in the end, and shared that with Shore.

_So, there's motive_, Harrington thought to himself. Shore had claimed he hadn't found Max at the hospital, but that he was staying around to make sure. Well, three hours was way more time than he needed to make sure. If Shore thought Max was in danger from the US government, would he have the guts to keep Max's whereabouts a secret?

_Yes_.

With no other leads, and a very solid feeling he was going in the right direction, Harrington changed his military uniform into casual clothes, and took Captain Whitmore's motorcycle to the hospital. It was cold, and snow was starting to fall again, but Harrington's mind was too concentrated on what to do once he found Max to care.

Two blocks before he reached Saint Paul's parking lot, the call had come: Washington had finally granted Max a safe haven and Harrington would do anything in his power to ensure the king's well-being. From Harrington's perspective, it didn't change his objective: Get Max alive. Others would deal with the diplomatic approach. Still, he tried to call Shore to give him the "good news", maybe get a positive ID on Max's whereabouts. If Shore was not helping Max in Saint Paul, then this was wasted time and energy.

Except Shore didn't answer. Frustrated, Harrington called Anders, who sighed in relief, not hiding the fact that he'd been aware of those talks all these time. Still, Anders told Harrington he'd also been trying to contact Shore with no luck. Maybe Shore had lost signal.

Maybe he was already dead.

It was a practical thought. Anders had admitted he'd talked to Shore not more than an hour before, but that was enough time for Michael to decide Shore was an enemy, for Max to unwittingly unleash his powers on his doctor, or for a hitman who had found them all and dispatched them under orders from someone in Washington who wasn't too happy about giving amnesty to an alleged king.

The crowd in front of the hospital was both an advantage and an obstacle. It was easier to get in undetected, but if there was a scene while trying to get to Max, there would be little he could do about crowd control.

Checking one last time with headquarters that Shore was still in the hospital, the tall man had entered Saint Paul's ER and stolen the first scrubs he had found. He had to be invisible around the halls, eyes and ears alert to any whisper of an unusual patient. As it turned out, luck had been just around the corner.

He had been unable to believe his eyes: Liz Parker was walking right into his –figurative- open arms. He didn't even blink.

He just took her into the closet and looked at her harder than he had looked at anyone since he'd been promoted to Colonel and rank alone ensured respect. But it _was_ she, the same girl he had seen only in pictures and a few videos. Older, clearly exhausted, and as startled to see a stranger taking her into a closet as he was to find her so unexpectedly.

Relief had flooded him for a moment. Oh, how relieved he had been for that glorious moment. And maybe it was for the best, too, that Liz had been the one he had met first. Of all of them, she was the one who would be more objective about what Washington had to offer.

But something was off. He saw it in Liz's eyes, heard it in Liz's silence, and perceived it in her stilled body. He couldn't pinpoint _what_ was off, only that it wasn't good. For the briefest of seconds he thought Max was dead. Yet... Liz wasn't angry or in despair. She was anxious and scared. His mind came up with more questions about all his previous theories: Where was Michael? Or Isabel? Why would they leave Liz unguarded? And why was Liz just now rushing into the hospital, instead of having been with her husband all this time?

As he left her standing in the hall where he had first grabbed her, all these critical questions started jumping at his mind. Well aware that he was not prepared for any kind of confrontation involving alien powers, he intended to retreat - only briefly. Now that he had a positive location, he had to assemble his Unit. Then he had to find Shore. _Then_ he had to find Max. There were too many things to set in motion, including convincing the merry alien group of his sudden change of orders. Now that they were all converging in here, there was a higher possibility things could explode.

For a moment, Harrington found very ironic that the closer he got to Max, the more Max seemed to be slipping through his fingers. Especially since regardless of what Max wanted, he was coming into federal protection one way or another.


	17. Echoes

All the parts of this chapter happen either simultaneously, or very close to each other in time.

* * *

**Chapter 16  
Echoes**

* * *

"I found Max's location," Colonel Harrington's voice came clear through the cell phone, bringing all thoughts to a halt in Lieutenant Colonel Anders' mind.

"How is he?" he asked after a second, a lead weight lifted from his shoulders. There was still hope as long as Max was alive.

"I don't know, I only saw Liz," the Colonel said, making Anders frown. What was that supposed to mean? "The Unit is mobilizing to secure Saint Paul's Hospital as we speak. Have you managed to contact Dr. Shore?"

"No, I keep getting voicemail. What did Liz say?"

"Nothing. There's something going on, but I need to secure this place first. If Liz is here though, Max cannot be that far. If you can't find Shore, I'll talk to Captain Whitmore then. We need someone with medical background to take charge."

Harrington hung up. Anders was running down the hall toward the closest exit before the phone screen had shut off.

* * *

_"Sarah Meyer's parents are here…" _Dr. Cramer's words seemed to echo as he entered Max's room_, "and I'm not sure for how long we can keep the handprint a secret."_

Michael and Hayden froze. Time itself seemed to freeze. Between them, Max didn't even stir on the bed. "It doesn't mean I cannot buy you time," Cramer amended, "just that you should know more people might start suspecting something is going on."

_This is bad_, Hayden thought, knowing Michael was one wrong word away from bolting the hell out of there. "You don't have to tell them," Hayden said, feeling himself panic. Michael hadn't moved, but it was obvious he was not taken this lightly. "I mean, the handprint will vanish, right? In four or five days?"

"We won't be here for four or five days," Michael forcibly said, looking at Max, maybe hoping to get an answer from his friend.

Hayden felt helpless. Part of him knew he was being selfish: He wanted to ask so many questions, know so many things, and now it seemed this quest was coming to an end leaving him with nothing else but more questions. And one outstanding tale. But the doctor in him knew Max needed to stay here. He had to convince Michael one way or another.

"Okay, that's understandable," he cautiously said to the young man, "let's see what the lab results are. That would give us a better idea…"

Michael passed his hands through his hair, obviously frustrated at the whole situation. "And what if they say he has to stay four or five days? What the hell do you even know about alien biology to even understand what they say?" Michael argued back in a furious whisper.

Whatever Hayden was about to say, it died in his throat. _A what?_ He knew they weren't average humans, that they may even consider themselves something different, but he was sure, _certain_ that he had heard that wrong. Or maybe there was some other meaning to the word _alien_ that was escaping him now.

The lights flickered for a few seconds as Michael turned to look at Max again and, closing his eyes, took a deep breath. Hayden turned to look at Cramer, who didn't look shocked, just concerned. _What the heck am I missing?_ he thought, feeling uneasy all of the sudden. He'd seen those kids being healthy in Phoenix; he'd seen Max glowing and Michael cooling him down. He'd even seen some sort of fleeting green shield when he had first encountered Max. He had more than proof that these two weren't exactly regular men, but that was light years from being from another planet. _There's no such thing as aliens,_ his mind stubbornly concluded._ Is there?_

"Where the hell have you been?" a very agitated Dr. Susan Lake said from the hall, looking worried and relieved at the same time. Her ponytail was loose and deep circles were under her eyes. It had been about four hours since Hayden had last seen her, but everything seemed sharper now, including her fatigue. His mind was in overload, trying to process Michael's last words, and Hayden had a strange feeling that time had somehow permanently slowed down. "I've been looking for all of you! I've just heard from the nurses that Sarah Meyer's parents are here and—"

Dr. Susan Lake stopped dead in her tracks as she entered the room. Her eyes went wide as she looked at Michael, and then audibly gasped as recognition all but hit her. "You were one… you were… on the images… the memories… I _saw_ you," she tried to explain, yet Hayden didn't understand a word. The world had suddenly stopped making sense.

Michael looked back at her, frowning, then turned to look at Hayden, who just turned to look at Lake again. "What the hell are you talking about?" Michael asked, rather rudely, though Hayden suspected it was more likely Michael was scared.

_Aliens?_ the word continued to play in his mind. He was stuck in that thought, and was processing everything else on the side of his mind.

"I touched Max…" Susan tried to explain, "I touched him and… and I got…" she trailed off.

"You got flashes," Michael finished for her, surprised. "What did he show you?"

Susan lost some of her shock at the question, but as she glanced at Cramer, a slightly guilty look formed on her face. "I wanted to know about Phoenix," she explained to Michael, "and it just happened. I was holding him and I just got the images of Phoenix… fast, a-and distorted. But I saw you. I-I don't even really know what else I saw…"

Michael closed his eyes tight for the second time in as many minutes, and Hayden would bet he was cursing inwardly. "Who else knows about Max?" he asked now to the three doctors, moving forward, almost as if trying to shield Max from them.

_Good God, aliens?_

"Just Dr. Holt. He was the one who actually admitted him yesterday," Dr. Lake said, turning to look at Cramer, who only nodded. "And now Sarah's parents are here—"

"How long will the test results take?" Michael asked Cramer, cutting Dr. Lake in midsentence.

"A few hours, but we'll need to re-do most of them later to see if Max is improving," Cramer answered, moving forward too, getting closer to Michael. "If you take Max out of here now, his chances of recovery are almost none. I don't need to know that much about your biology to be sure of that."

"We'll take our chances, thank you," Michael menacingly said, barely above a whisper. "I'll wait for those results. Then we're leaving."

Michael stared at them, daring them to say another word, and Cramer wanted to argue, it was obvious in his face. Exasperated, Cramer gave in with a frustrated sigh.

"I'll talk to her parents, and try to keep the handprint secret in the process," he stated, maybe reminding Michael they were really doing everything they could to keep Max safe from prying eyes. Looking at Dr. Lake, he added, "Call McConnell to keep him on the loop. He should be with Holt doing the lab tests right now."

And with that, both doctors left, each taking a different direction in the hall, presumably intending on returning soon or at least on getting McConnell back into the room. After all, McConnell seemed to have the magic touch when it came to Michael, and that was probably the reason why Cramer had given up so soon. Or maybe Cramer only wanted to tell McConnell to take all the time in the world with the test results so Michael would stay longer.

Whatever the reason had been, Dr. Chris E. Hayden, pediatrician and proud geek, suddenly found himself alone with two certified aliens in the room. And with no idea of what the hell to do.

* * *

It was a never ending nightmare. That was the only thought Liz had as she stared at nothing but space, desperate to get a sense of direction to find Max. She couldn't sense anything.

She'd reached the third floor, following the bloody droplets left by Max, something that had almost broken her heart and made her nauseous. Max was somewhere in there, suffering and scared, and she couldn't get a hold of him.

Oh, she could feel his fear and his confusion, but she couldn't pinpoint _where_ it was coming from. It _was_ from the third floor, she was sure of that, but going left or right, ahead or back, it all just felt the same. Their connection was just too low.

She wanted to tear down every door and every single wall, and see every face until she found him, and then get him the hell out of there. She was being irrational, a part of her mind whispered, and she felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The hospital staff had pretty much ignored her because she'd been out of their way, but someone was bound to notice if she was snooping around, aiming with no direction. There was a message posted at the nurse's station clearly indicating there were no John Does from the train derailment here, so either she knew someone here, or she was on the wrong floor.

She'd gone down the hallways anyway, looking into every open room, but most of them were closed. She'd started opening them, finding three families in mourning, two with what looked like tears of joy, and twice now she'd been asked who she was looking for by nurses.

By this point, she'd been sitting in the waiting area for what felt like an eternity, even if the clock on the wall was telling her only 17 minutes had passed. She needed a plan. She needed to systematically go through the entire floor with a plausible story. Deep inside, she was also hoping she would get a sense of where Max was if she just waited long enough.

_Hi. I'm looking for Max Evans. Tall, dark hair, in his early twenties. I know for a fact he's here because we have this… this connection, you know? I just need to look in every room until I find him. _

She closed her eyes. She was so tired by now, so stressed out by five days of anxiety and knowing her husband was sick and in the hands of the Unit, that part of her wanted to shut down and wake up from this goddamned reality. This wasn't happening.

Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that Max was not alone. Michael _had _found him, and he should be with him now. She only had to find her husband's second in command in order to find Max. But Michael was as elusive as her dark haired soulmate, and her vision of Max getting shot was replaying itself over and over in an infernal loop that would not stop.

Eighteen minutes.

With each passing minute Liz could feel as if the walls were closing in. Eighteen minutes could mean that eighteen agents were already coming up the emergency stairs, the same stairs her husband had climbed hoping he could escape.

She stood up, ready to start looking again, door by door. God helped the poor souls who try to stop her, the tingling sensations at her fingertips signaling she was at the end of her rope.

_Where are you?_ She desperately thought at the abyss of her mind as she turned to look to the hall, first to her right, then to her left, trying to pick a direction to start all over again. She froze as she spotted a man. He wasn't Max, or Michael, but she saw the next best thing: With graying hair, looking tired, worried and walking too fast to even notice her, one of the doctors who had been with Max was coming right into her path, the oldest one of the group. He would know where Max was. He _had_ to know where Max was.

"Where is he?" she determinedly asked as she blocked his path, her eyes dead serious. The doctor stopped, surprised, obviously trying to place her face and failing miserably. She barely had time to glance at his name tag: McConnell.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"Where's Max?" she cut him off, practically hearing the clock behind her, seconds wastefully ticking away. Recognition filled the man's eyes, if not at her face, certainly at her words. He started to open his mouth and then shut it closed, taking a step back. "If you don't tell me where my husband is right now, I swear you'll regret it," her voice came harsh and menacing, and Liz couldn't care one bit.

"He's safe," the doctor finally said, now looking sideways and then back, as if fearing someone was following him, or eavesdropping on them. He led her closer to the wall, trying to avoid crowding the hall. He looked at her, stared at her really, his tall frame causing her to look up. "He needs to stay here," he said, urgently now, "we're running tests as we speak, but he has to stay here."

"No," Liz said, slightly moving her head side to side, the tingling in her hands getting uncomfortable. She hugged her ribs trying to hide it, looking down as she tried to calm herself. "We need to leave now," she said through clenched teeth, finding the strength to look at the doctor again while subduing her own energy. "He's not safe here. This is the worst place he could be right now. Trust me, I _know._"

Max was getting shot in her mind again, the clock impossibly loud in her ears at her back. She hugged herself harder.

Something must have passed through her face, because finally, _finally,_ the doctor heavily sighed and gave up. "This way, please."

* * *

Somewhere, Liz was scared.

There was not much that Max's mind could fully comprehend, but this thought came loud and clear. He was still in his dream, lying on the couch, Isabel's hand stroking his hair from his forehead as he tried to piece together what was happening out there, in the real world.

"Liz," he said, his eyes widening as his own heart picked up speed.

"Shh, Max. She's fine. She's right beside me in the car," Isabel soothed him, not letting him sit up.

"No," Max said with certainty, his eyes fixing on some point in the ceiling, concentrating. "She's near. And she's… desperate," Max finished in a whisper, fear growing in his own heart.

"Max, she's okay. She's here with me," Isabel insisted, but these words Max barely registered. He closed his eyes and willed himself to wake up. He had no more time to think and understand what had happened to him. Somewhere, his wife was so anxious it tore his soul apart. Yet waking was proving as difficult as recalling what had been going on with his life for the past five days. Echoes intruded his mind again, distorted images accompanying fragmented phrases…

_You need to rest…_

_Keep running!_

_Where are you from?_

_What did you do in Phoenix?_

_Where are you?_

_Liz!_ he thought at that last memory, Liz's voice calling to him strong enough to clear the fog of his mind. The echoes seemed to stop, being replaced by other sounds. A beeping. Voices far away. In the darkness of his mind, he became aware that his body felt incredibly heavy and numb.

He tried to open his eyes and speak, but his muscles were unresponsive, as if he had been still for far too long and had forgotten how to move at all. Fighting his way through his tired body, his mind also searched for Liz's presence. Isabel had insisted she was safe and sitting beside her, but Max _knew_ that wasn't the case. Liz's panic was too close for him to believe otherwise.

Light tried to sip through his eyelids, and the sound of the beeping became sharper, closer. There were no longer voices around, though, but Max could sense he was not alone. At his right, there was a strong presence. It was familiar, and fierce. And at this very moment, it was also scared.

Michael.

Max's right index finger moved at his will, finally breaking the immobilizing spell Max had been under. Slowly but surely, he was able to open his eyes, just to close them again as the harsh light of the room blinded him.

"Liz…" he mumbled as he moved his head to the left, trying to avoid the brightness around him. His throat felt dry, and his voice was hoarse.

"Max!" came Michael's anxious voice, getting closer to him.

"Liz…" Max repeated, clearer this time, his eyes hurting at the brightness as they slowly adjusted to the light. "Find… Liz," he said as Michael came into focus.

"She's okay, she's with Isabel," Michael answered with the same conviction Isabel had assured him the same thing. Max shook his head no.

"She's here… Find her," Max insisted, all his determination in those four words. For once in his life, Max did wish he could command Michael at will, so his best friend wouldn't question him at all about finding his wife. "Please…"

"What is he saying?" another voice said. An unfamiliar man stood at his left, looking nervous and out of place. Maybe not unfamiliar exactly, Max's mind corrected, but someone from his recent past. He just couldn't place the man's face, one that eerily reminded him of Alex.

"He wants me to find his wife. He's certain she's here…" Michael said, sounding confused himself. "Max, Liz isn't here. She wouldn't—"

Max didn't let Michael finish his sentence. With strength no one would have believed he possessed, Max grabbed Michael's wrist and made an instant connection. He hadn't been so focused on anything for a long time, but with Liz's fear so strong, Max had no other thought in his mind. He let Michael feel Liz's own panic, let him feel how close Max was sensing her, and above all how frightened he was for her.

"Find her," Max pleaded as he let go, feeling drained but more alert than he had all week long. A second thought occurred to him then: This was absurd. He should just get up and find her himself.

Michael just stared at him for a second, unblinking, until Max tried to sit up, which snapped him out of it immediately.

"There's no way in hell you're going anywhere right now," Michael said, restraining Max with a hand on his chest, pushing him down. "The only reason Liz would be so close by is if she saw something. I'll find her," he said with a slight nod of his head, and then turned to the other man, "You better guard him with your life."

Michael left without another word. Max let out the air he hadn't realized he had been holding, turning to look at the ceiling, still not completely sure he shouldn't go find Liz on his own. He frowned for a second at the sudden relief he felt coming from Liz then. Michael couldn't have found her that fast, could he?

Something cold touched his chest, startling him. The man who had been left behind to guard him was listening to his heart through a stethoscope, smiling faintly at him.

"Just making sure…" he explained, his eyes avoiding looking at Max's face directly. _Making sure of what? _Max wondered, slowly realizing where he was. His heart skipped a beat as he remembered fragmented memories of doctors and needles and hallways. His concentration lost his link to Liz, leaving him only with a sense that she was nearby but nothing else. His mind focused on his here and now: This was a hospital, right, but somehow that wasn't a bad thing… It couldn't be if Michael had told him to stay and had been watching over him before that.

"You sound so normal," the man absently said while taking his pulse. Max's muscles tensed, adrenaline kicking in as everything around him became intense. He could not stop feeling like a prisoner or, even worse, like a lab subject. His eyes moved to the hand that was holding his wrist, and without meaning to, a flash crossed his mind.

Kids, smiling.

"Phoenix?" Max said in surprise, not entirely sure how he'd gotten that conclusion, but somehow knowing he was right. At this, the man actually looked at Max's eyes.

"Yes. I mean, yes, I work in Phoenix. I actually work with the kids you saved?" the man answered, a bit uncertain if Max would remember, yet his face actually looking relieved and excited.

Max's muscles loosed as his mind ran with the probabilities of finding this man here. Why would a pediatrician from Phoenix be in his room? A pink bunny jumped in Max's mind. A little girl running, dragging the pink bunny in the grass, laughter following her.

"I came as fast as I could when Dr. Lake called to ask about the handprints. You have _no_ idea how long we've been trying to figure out how you healed those children, so when I heard about Sarah…" he trailed off, arching one eyebrow as if his meaning were clear.

"Who's Sarah?" Max asked, an uneasy feeling growing in his chest.

The doctor's face changed once again, to uncertainty now. "Sarah's the girl you healed… yesterday," he explained.

The pink bunny returned to Max's mind, golden locks floating in the air, suddenly morphing into a pale face and closed eyes. He'd seen a dying girl, he could recall now, but he couldn't remember actually _healing _her. Everything was just so confusing right now.

"Don't worry if you don't remember. You've been sick yourself. You should rest," the man said, looking at the door as if expecting someone to come in.

Max returned his focus to Liz. He could no longer feel the panic coming from her, but why wasn't Michael bringing her back, then? He would know if something was happening to her now, he told himself, feeling tired yet too anxious to even consider resting. The doctor stood up and went to fill a glass of water, Max's eyes following his every move. Max had healed a girl yesterday, the reason why this man was here right now, and he had no recollection of that, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. What else was he forgetting?

What if something was still very wrong with him, and there were things he was still missing? Or maybe it wasn't only his memories, but things like his powers, and his connection to Liz?

The monitors started beeping frenetically as he started to detach all the wires he could find. He had to find Liz and make sure everyone was okay.

"Oh no, no, no, wait right there!" the man came rushing back, "You're in no condition to go anywhere. You have to rest!"

Max ignored him, and concentrating he wiped out everything on his body. He felt tired and drained, but the idea of Liz needing help filled him with an urgent need to move. The cold floor helped him clear his thoughts a bit as he stood barefoot, trying to pick a direction to find Liz.

"And your friend will kill me if something happens to you," the doctor finished, pleading now, with a glass of water in one hand and the other in front of him, trying to guard Max off.

Max stopped, leaning on the bed for a second as a dizzy spell seized him for a moment. "I'm going to find my wife. I'll rest all you want after that." For a second, Max thought he would have to fight him in order to get out of the room, and it certainly looked like the man in front of him was seriously considering it as well, yet one second later, he lowered his hand and looked at him sternly.

"We'll find her, and then you're coming back. To _rest_," he emphasized. Then, "You can't go out to the hall wearing that," he added, turning to the closet in search of non-hospital clothes and probably some footwear too.

"Watch me," was all Max said as he went out of the room.


	18. Convergence

**Chapter 17  
Convergence  


* * *

**

The instructions had been very clear: Find Max Evans and execute him.

The assassin had been monitoring the Special Unit's movements since he had gotten into the city and, after seeing there was no real lead, he had started to get impatient. Still he had waited, and when the Head of the Special Unit himself had gotten onto a bike, he knew there was finally somewhere to look.

He didn't know what Max Evans was wanted for, or why he had to be executed. All he knew was that his target was dangerous and that he needed to proceed with extreme caution. When he entered the hospital's main entrance, his thoughts divided into three things: Blend in, find the target, plan your escape route.

The controlled chaos that was Saint Paul's Hospital would aid him with the first and the third. Finding his target was going to be a more elusive problem to solve.

By the time the Special Unit was setting up their perimeter, the man with the mission to unknowingly kill Antar's king had already finished sweeping the first floor.

* * *

"Strange," Dr. Shore said as he took his eyes from the microscope, while Dr. Holt tried to not look so anxious as if he were hanging on his every word. Shore had returned to the lab to help Holt cross-check the test results from Max and Michael samples since Michael had finally consented to let McConnell test him.

"Strang_er_, you mean," Holt said, half joking, half serious. Shore straightened up on the stool.

"I'll have to run more tests, but I think their biochemistry substantially changes when they are using their abilities. It may explain why Max got such a bad reaction out of the sedative the Unit was using, or why we can't seem to get the same effect with the same drugs after continuous use. You would have to factor in if he is doing something or not."

"How long have you been studying them?" Holt asked, a dangerous question for Shore to answer. He had trusted Dr. McConnell with a great deal of sensitive information –at least as much as one could tell in 20 minutes- but if he wanted Holt's help to be of any use, some truth had to be disclosed.

"For about three days, before Max landed in your ER. He was already sick when they called me in. They'd been trying to stabilize him with a cocktail of drugs that was doing nothing but leaving his temperature too low, and his mind too numb to answer much. This is the first time I'm looking at Michael's sample. I wish we had had it when I arrived five days ago… Would have been easier to treat Max."

"What are they telling you now? The samples?" Holt asked, his eyes reviewing for the fourth time the few results they already had.

"That hopefully we are on the right path," Shore said with a heavy sigh. "Though I gotta admit… I doubt it's anything we're doing…"

Holt frowned at that, staring at Shore, waiting for a clearer answer.

"We compromised Max's own self-healing abilities with a serum that suppresses specific neurotransmitters after his body reacted so poorly to the sedatives. It all went downhill for him from that point on. We might have helped him to hold on while he metabolized all the drugs, but ultimately, I think his own body is healing itself. It's the only reason I can find for him being able to run out of your quarantine room so soon after being so sick."

Not that Shore knew the details about it. Last time he had seen Max, he had been burning up a 111 ºF fever, a thought that made Shore shiver. How much could Max really withstand, after all he had gone through? Shore now knew that Max had somehow demolished the quarantine area, had run, and then had ended up somewhere else. With a half frustrated sigh, Shore had to trust that McConnell knew what he was doing by keeping Max's whereabouts secret.

"So what happens to him? I mean, if he heals, will you take him back? Will he be… you know… okay?"

What a loaded question, and by the way Holt had asked it, it seemed it was pretty obvious to the younger doctor that Max would not be okay. A shrill ringtone interrupted them before Shore had time to think what to answer. His cell phone was lighting up as a "private number" showed up on the little screen.

"Shore here," he answered after the second ring.

"Thank _God_ you answered!" Bill's voice came through, sounding breathless. "Where the hell are you? And why the hell weren't you answering? And for God's sake, don't disappear on me like that again!"

Shore actually stared at the phone for a couple of seconds, bewildered. Never had his friend talked to him like that.

"I guess I didn't have any signal where I was before. This is the first time I heard the phone. What's going on, anyway? Did Washington vote?"

"Hell, it voted, all right. Max's been granted political asylum, and everyone is just going around like headless chickens trying to figure out what the hell they are going to do once Max is healthy, and hopefully cooperative. Where the hell are you, Pete?"

This was definitely the weirdest conversation he had had with his friend ever. How many times could Bill say "hell" in three sentences? Bill was one of the calmest and most rational guys he had ever met, so whatever he was thinking, it was very upsetting.

"Pete?" the voice on the other end prompted.

"Sorry, I'm just surprised. I wasn't sure if Washington was going to do the right thing," Shore responded.

"I thought you were dead," Bill said barely above a whisper. "You weren't answering, you weren't reporting anything, and you had already spent so much time at that hospital…"

Shore's heart skipped a beat. How did Bill _know _that? The phone, of course, came the answer a second later. He had a Special Unit phone, an instant GPS.

"Are you still there?" Bill interrogated, now sounding more in control.

"Yes," he finally admitted, no point in denying where his phone was when he was talking through it.

"Harrington is there. He's seen Liz, and is now in the process of closing the perimeter around Saint Paul's. Peter… did you actually _find_ Max?"

Silence met these words, as Shore debated how exactly to convince Bill that Max's exact whereabouts needed to remain secret, at least until Washington was certain no one wanted Max dead.

"Harrington shouldn't be here… Michael is guarding Max. It won't be pretty if anyone gets close to him." It wasn't a flat out _yes, I found him_, but it certainly left no question about it.

"Is he okay? Peter, tell me he's okay," Bill practically begged him.

Shore turned to look at Holt, who was watching him like a hawk. "He's getting there. We think he's getting better."

There was a relief sigh at the other end of the phone. "Wait, '_we'_?" The concern was back, and Shore knew this conversation was inevitable.

"There are four doctors here who know that Max is not completely human. They are the reason that Max is alive right now."

"This complicates things… but I guess it's not completely unexpected…" his friend said in a more resigned tone. "I'm on my way, be there in about twenty minutes with this traffic. Can you meet me somewhere there?"

That was a dangerous proposition. Shore didn't want to risk being seen by Michael, at least not until McConnell had had a chance to talk to him… "Page Dr. Holt when you arrive here, he'll bring you to where I am," he simply said.

"Okay, sounds like a plan. You'll fill me in on Max's condition, and we'll see how best to present to His Majesty our peace offering. I just love my job…" the Lieutenant Colonel humorlessly said. He hung up without further questions, leaving Shore with one nagging feeling growing at the back of his mind: Now that Harrington was here, what was he planning to do?

* * *

Dr. McConnell's mind was one intricate, frantic mess. He was walking in front of Liz, taking the longest possible way to Max's room, trying to understand how he had ended up between the FBI and an alien-human hybrid alleged king in the last 24 four hours. Though technically speaking, it had only been about 17 hours.

"You do realize he'll die if you move him," he said, turning back to look at Liz, who was trailing right behind him, following him while looking at every single person they crossed, obviously nervous and afraid.

"I know he'll die if I _don't_ move him," she answered, not looking at him directly, but at a male nurse coming from the other end of the hall. She was wary of everyone, but especially men.

"We are keeping him secret from the FBI, too," McConnell said, desperately trying to find some way to convince the short woman to give Max a chance to recover. At his words, she actually looked surprised. Then she shook her head, and made him walk faster.

"You don't understand," she said, her eyes getting slightly lost, "they'll find him, and they'll shoot him."

"They are actually trying to save him," the words came stumbling out of his mouth, as he played his last card into this. Liz actually stopped, stunned.

"You're working with them…" she whispered, her eyes going round, panic giving way to betrayal in her face as the information sank in.

"He doesn't know where Max is, but he's been helping us in the lab. I _swear_ he doesn't know," McConnell insisted as he felt Liz ready to bolt –so like Michael- and took her by the shoulders. "Max is really sick, and Shore is the only one who understands what's going on. He doesn't want Max getting hurt, or shot at. He… he's the reason Max is alive right now."

She wasn't buying it, and McConnell was running out of ideas.

"They're the reason why he's here in the first place," she angrily retorted, a counterargument McConnell couldn't deny.

"True, but they didn't know then what they know now…" he said, lowering his voice. He wasn't sure how exactly to go about asking what Shore had told him, but he guessed now was his last chance to find out. Liz just looked at him in quiet fury and slight confusion. "Liz, why exactly is Max here? Not here, in the hospital, but here on Earth?"

"It's… a rather long story," Liz said, a bit of the anger dissipating, her eyes looking as tired as his felt. "Max is a great man," she continued, "and he would be the last person in this world to hurt anyone. He's not dangerous. Whatever the Unit told you, it's not true."

Funny that, because he had half a mind to not believe them either. Liz was about to say something, when she stopped, mouth slightly open, her eyes losing focus for a moment. "What exactly did they tell you?" she asked, frowning, trying to decipher some mystery by the look on her face.

"A rather long story," McConnell echoed her early answer, and this time, he got Liz's attention. "Apparently, Max told them something… and they are willing to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Harrington said they had granted him political refuge…" she whispered, "but it doesn't make sense."

_Who?_ McConnell fleetingly wondered, though all he cared about was the ray of hope he saw in Liz's words. "I don't know about him, but Dr. Shore has been here for about four hours, and his only focus has been keeping Max alive. Michael showed up half an hour ago, and he let us take blood samples to help Max."

"He did?" Liz said, her eyes widening in surprised disbelief. "God, Max must be really sick if Michael let you do that…"

"Yes, but he's been doing better… Let us help him…"

"You don't understand…" Liz's voice almost cracked as she repeated herself, "I—"

She never finished. Coming from the other side, Michael was approaching them faster than a hunting lion, exuding exactly the same lethal type of energy.

"What did you see?" he said as soon as he was close enough not to yell it.

"Someone's going to shoot him," Liz said as certain as if she were saying the sky is blue.

"Where?" Michael asked, fear joining his tense features.

"In a hospital room… There's a girl, on a bed… Max walks in, and then someone shoots him."

"He's not strong enough to walk, we have time," Michael said, looking over McConnell's shoulder and then to the hall he had just come from, his eyes searching in the same manner Liz had a few minutes before. He was looking for suspects.

"The Head of the Unit is here," Liz filled Michael in, at which the younger man cursed. "Someone named Harrington. He approached me on the first floor. He claims they are giving Max political refuge. Did Max say anything to you?"

"What? No, he hasn't been able to say much of anything. He woke up about ten minutes ago and sent me to find you. Which wasn't easy…" he added, looking at McConnell for a second, and then back to the hall. Saint Paul was a big hospital, indeed. "He's not in great shape, Liz, but he's holding on. If the Unit is here, we have to move him now."

"Hold it right there," McConnell said as Michael was turning to retrace his path leading to Max. "What are you talking about? Who's going to shoot Max?" he asked, standing in the middle of the pair, nothing making any sense. Again. They both turned to look at him, both opening their mouths and then closing them.

"I won't presume to understand what exactly you kids have gone through, or what the FBI has done in the past. But right now, the life of your husband and friend is on the line. Unless you have the means to heal him or move him to another hospital, whatever risk you perceive is coming, cannot be greater than the risk Max is already in."

Silence met his words. In that moment, both Michael and Liz looked really young, trapped in making a life-or-death decision no one ever wanted to make. Worst, so sure were they that no one would help them that they couldn't even attempt asking for advice.

"Let me help you…" McConnell said above a whisper, urgency coloring his voice. For a moment, he actually thought he had finally won them over.

Liz slightly shook her head. "He's going to get shot," she said with chilling conviction, and turning to go to the hall where Michael had come, she told her friend, "We have to get him out, now."

McConnell felt disheartened, but followed them. If he could not make them see reason, there were plenty of tricks he could think of to delay them. The more time Max spent here, the better for him. And in the meantime, McConnell still had a couple of questions for Shore he needed answers to.

* * *

The Special Unit headcount had been small by definition, but it had been downright undersized thanks to the snowstorm that had prevented the rest of the agents from getting to their makeshift headquarters five days before. Now that the storm had passed more than 24 hours ago, the newly arrived agents were taking their posts, securing the hospital.

Colonel Harrington had been very explicit about the no-kill order, and that the targets should be only pointed out when found. It was up to the Colonel, Dr. Shore or Lieutenant Colonel Anders to actually make contact.

The no-kill order didn't mean it was a no-shoot scenario, though, something Agent Osler contemplated as he surveyed the hospital parking lot from a nearby roof. The tranquilizer rifle was not as easy to maneuver as his regular rifle, but it would have to do. The other sniper, Agent Meader, was already positioned a block away, covering the main entrance.

Picking a spot, he methodically prepared his weapon and made one last general overview of the grounds before lowering to the floor. Settling in, Osler got used to the weight and length of his new rifle, and promptly started to single out targets through the crosshairs. He had the sideways with the ER entrance right in front. Tons of people were milling through the entire block, news crews and policemen all around. If he were to shoot any target from right here, it would be hard to explain, especially with cameras rolling. His orders were not to shoot if he saw them going in, just if he saw them coming out.

Slowly, he imagined exactly that, his target walking out of the building. He traced all the possible directions a target could take from the ER entrance, moving the crosshairs first to his right, and then to his left, following both streets that intersected right beneath the corner where he was hidden. He might not be able to shoot the targets right at the entrance, but he sure as hell could shoot them away from prying eyes.

He reached the end of the block, and froze. His imagination was good, but not _this_ good.

Coming from a red, battered Toyota, Isabel Evans was frantically looking from one side to the other, obviously looking for someone. Her hair was blond and long, like she used to wear it in her high school days, which had actually made the agent doubt it was her. The last known pictures of her were with short, red hair. Regardless, Agent Osler watched her turning to look in the direction of the hospital, obviously trying to decide if she should go in or not.

Her face changed from worried, to indecisive, to furious. And it was with the same furious expression that Agent Osler followed her throughout the street, and saw her disappear through the ER entrance.

Colonel Harrington was getting a full house, and Agent Osler lost no second on reporting that to him.


	19. Choices

Hi all!

First, a big thank you to Sundae for taking on beta duties as fast as she did! And wow! You are a wonderful editor, girl! Any leftover mistakes are solely mine.

Second, if you are reading The Offer, yes, I have the next part... and tons of pages on the editing floor that hopefully will speed up what's to come.

Lastly, thank you all for sticking to my stories, even if sometimes it takes ages between parts... you're the bestest!

* * *

**Chapter 18**  
**Choices**

**

* * *

**

Max managed to get as far as the next door before he had to stop. He felt awful enough to need to lean onto the wall for a few seconds, but not long enough to stop searching for his wife. Somewhere, nearby, Liz was still vulnerable, looking for him.

"_Please_, at least let me help you," the man Max had left behind in the room said breathlessly as he held one bathrobe in one hand and in the other the same glass of water he'd tried to offer just a few minutes before. He looked scared out of his mind, and right at the verge of hyperventilating, even if Max himself was in no condition to judge anyone. He wasn't looking all that well either.

"I just want to find my wife…" Max said while briefly closing his eyes, his legs starting to feel firmer, and his heart not sounding so loud in his ears.

"I just want you back in that room," the man said, "but… yeah…" he finished with a half hearted smile. He offered the water a second later, and again Max declined.

"Nauseous…" he whispered, slightly turning to get a better view of the hall. A better sense if Liz was that way or not.

"Drink it slowly," the doctor insisted, "you are dehydrated…"

…_And your body needs all the help it can get right now… _the echo of a voice flashed through Max's mind without warning, a memory of his missing time. There had been another doctor who'd said the same thing; he'd offered him some slightly sweet water too.

"Maybe you should get back—"

"No, I'm fine," Max replied, taking the glass and barely sipping a drink, trying to both follow that elusive memory and convince this man he was better than he looked. The glass almost slipped from his grip, Max's reaction to hold it tightly coming a few moments too slow, but he still managed to not drop it. Reluctantly, he admitted in his mind he could definitely use a bed right now, and then dismissed the idea. He shook his head once as the green eyed doctor leaned next to him on the wall, handing him the robe.

Giving back the glass, Max took the offered cloth, suddenly feeling exposed.

"What does she look like?" The man asked as he waited on Max to put on the mint colored robe before gently coaching him to take another sip of the water.

An image of Liz flashed through is mind, laughing about some silly inside joke between them, her hair cascading down her shoulders. _Left or right?_ Max couldn't decide…there was no direct feeling, no anchor, nothing. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't seem to get a hold of her. She was anxious again, that was all he knew. Picking right, Max proceed down the hall.

"She has long, straight, dark-brown hair… she's about this height," Max answered as he signaled to his shoulder. "She's twenty and…"

…_and she's done nothing wrong…_ The echo of the memory continued in his mind. He'd said that to someone, someone who'd been asking about who Liz was.

"And she's worried about you, right?" the doctor questioned, taking Max's left elbow to lend him support. "It's true, isn't it? You really _can_ sense her?"

"Not too well right now," Max answered, stopping again in the middle of the hall. "I can't tell where she is… just that she's near…"

"Well, that's more than I can sense… from anything…" the doctor said with a slightly nervous laugh. Max started walking again, a little slower than before, trying to get a hold of anything that would tell him if he was going in the right direction. "What— what else can you do?"

Max thought for a second, his mind going from telekinesis to connecting, from igniting fires to his shield. "Not much," he simply answered instead. There was no sense on making things more complicated, or exhausting himself trying to anyway.

"Why are you so sick?" the doctor suddenly asked, looking straight ahead, "I mean, you healed all those kids in Phoenix, and then Sarah yesterday, despite the fact that you were already sick from what I understood from Susan, so it doesn't really make sense, you know? If you can heal outside bodies, you should be able to heal inside your own body, right? What else would healing abilities be good for, otherwise? But then, how do you heal, I mean, if—"

"It made me sick," Max cut him off before he could become dizzier by the rain of questions. "They gave me some drug that made me sick… I think…" he added, unsure. The light from the hall started to irritate his eyes, so he closed them, finding some relief.

"The government?"

"The FBI Special Unit," Max clarified, nodding. "They think we're dangerous…" Max stopped again, this time trying to recall something. "They were asking odd things…" He remembered thinking that_, odd things they wanted to know_, but now he could not remember what they were.

"Are… you…?" the older man asked, stopping with Max as well, still not looking at him but at the end of the hall.

"No…" Max answered, a bit distracted, "But they don't want to believe that…"

"You healed children…" the doctor whispered, something in his mind not making sense to him, "Why?" he asked as he finally turned to look at Max. But Max was no longer really looking at him. The light from the hall had triggered his memories, and like a broken dam, the rush of images threatened to draw him. He blindly reached for the support of the wall to his right as his breathing rapidly increased.

"Max?" he heard the doctor calling to him.

"_Max?_" he heard Liz in his mind, anxiously reaching for him.

_Max_... the voice of the other doctor, Shore, broke into his mind as his memory replaced reality, the walls dissolving, everything changing in an instant into what his mind was recalling . . .

.

.

_. . . "Max..." Shore was gently coaxing him to wake up. Shapes and colors fusing and then_ taking proper form as Max's eyelids slowly opened to soft, blue light. Everything was quiet, still. He was warmly wrapped in blue, heavy covers, though his muscles ached enough to make him feel uncomfortable. He was thirsty, and vaguely dizzy, and frankly, he had all the intention in the world to just shut his eyes and let sleep take him again, but there seemed to be a nagging feeling in his mind that there was something important he should be aware of.

He slowly blinked, the dark ceiling looking too high. He couldn't recall _how_ he knew the man beside him was something-or-other Shore, but not knowing the specifics didn't bother him either.

"How are you feeling?" Shore softly asked, not raising his voice as if something would break if he did so. He was sitting on a chair, a discarded notebook and pencil on his lap.

There was an odd need to answer him, almost like a compulsion, that Max tried to shake off. Everything felt slow, his mind too heavy with sleep to process everything at the right speed, though he found it weird he was aware of that. He knew, beyond a doubt, that if he were to speak, his words would sound slurred, maybe even a bit incoherent.

He also knew he was missing something important here. Shore stood, placing the notebook and the pencil on the chair, and then reached for Max. His shadow covered Max's face from the lights above, leaving the man's features almost obscured to Max's eyes for a few moments.

"Your fever broke a couple of hours ago," Shore said, still quietly, soothing. "You must be thirsty," he added as he reached for something by Max's side. Water, by the sound of it. The bed started to slowly rise, leaving Max slightly inclined. His stomach protested the motion, as minimum as it was, making Max more aware of what his body was feeling, but still not knowing why. He didn't get sick, he was sure. Yet apparently, he did.

"Drink it slowly," the doctor insisted. "You're dehydrated and your body needs all the help it can get right now…" A foamy cup met Max's lips. He tried to reach for it but found his wrists restrained under the covers, the contact with his skin letting him know that they were large padded straps. He didn't really register the importance of this at first, as Shore slowly raised the bottom of the cup so the water would flow into Max's mouth.

"Okay… How are you feeling?" the doctor asked again, allowing Max only a few more sips, his blue eyes expectantly looking at him.

"Tired…" Max answered truthfully, a dozen words coming to his mind right after that. He was thirsty, sore, exhausted, and the few sips of water weren't settling down so great in his stomach. He also had the feeling that reality was just out of his reach, and for a moment he looked directly at the doctor wondering if maybe it was all a dream.

"Headaches?" the man inquired, his hand going to Max's forehead. Max shook his head, but the movement only made his dizziness increase. He stopped, closing his eyes. The touch of the hand brought a fleeting flash that Max couldn't decipher beyond images of charts, formulas and numbers, all meaningless to him but clearly important to Shore.

Seconds passed, Max's awareness improving, if not by much, at least enough to start piecing together where he was and how he'd gotten there. Images came, about a mall, running through streets, the cold air painfully filling his lungs. Rolls of paper, a warehouse. _Michael!_ He remembered then, if not all, enough to realize that he'd been captured.

He opened his eyes suddenly, his mind terrified about Michael and his whereabouts, about the others, about himself. His first reaction was to reach for Liz, to assure his raising heart that she was okay, that only he was the one in hell. An unconnected memory flashed through his mind then, the voice talking in whispers, but the message all the same clear: _I don't think Harrington would mind him staying a little longer if only to use Max as bait. _

Everything stopped. In Max's mind, time instantly froze as he realized that he could not ask for help, could not risk the others following him here. This time, there was no way out if not by himself.

The hand on his forehead retreated as soon as he opened his eyes, causing Max to look at his captor, feeling torn between wanting to convince this man he was not the enemy or just remaining silent, thereby not giving him anything to use. Regardless, Max instinctively moved back, something futile as he was strapped to the bed, and kept fearful, vulnerable eyes on those of the older man.

"It's okay, Max. It's okay…"

A million things crossed Max's mind at that moment, starting with _no, it's not okay,_ but nothing came out of his mouth. He was too scared, and too aware that whatever he would say wouldn't matter anyways. The fact that it still felt as though time had somehow slowed down didn't help any either.

Shore firmly placed both hands on Max's shoulders, effectively getting his attention. "Max. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." Shore held him still, waiting for some sort of cue from Max, he guessed, but damn if he knew what. "Try to relax…" Shore explained, in a softer manner. "Your heart hasn't had a great time the past hours."

Max's eyes locked with Shore's, not knowing what to do, his breath coming too fast to try to calm himself.

"Slooowly," Shore instructed, slightly dragging the word to emphasize the meaning, his grip almost nonexistent on Max's shoulders now. "One breath at a time. You cannot control your heart, but you can control your breathing," he whispered, his features still partially obscure by the light above his head.

His perception of time still askew, Max focused on the man's slow words, trying to match his breathing to the one of his captor. It took a couple of minutes, but finally, he wasn't hyperventilating. He was far from relaxed, but he would take small victories at given chance. His thoughts were somewhat clearer now that panic was not gripping his every thought, but Max knew reality was still coming distorted to his senses.

"That's good," Shore praised him with a small smile.

"I'm not—not dangerous," Max whispered, sensing that maybe this man was different from Pierce; different from every single monster that had lurked the shadows of his nightmares.

"I believe you," Shore assured him, briefly looking up. "Let's concentrate on getting you better, okay?"

Max didn't move. He hardly even blinked. They were making him sick, why would this man care to make him feel better, then?

"You must feel a bit drowsy. You'll get sleepier in a few minutes," Shore said with a small smile, "So let's check a few things before that, okay?" The doctor nodded at his own words, and Max reluctantly nodded once.

"I'm going to ask you some simple questions. Just say yes or no," Shore paused, expectantly looking at Max. It took a couple of seconds, but it finally dawned on him that Shore was waiting to see if he'd understood. "Okay," he whispered, still afraid.

"It's your name Max Evans?"

"Yes." It wasn't so much that he wanted to answer; it was more like he _needed_ to answer. It felt weird, weirder that he was actually aware of this feeling, but the next question came, and then the next… and then the next.

They blurred in his memory now, but the uneasy sensation that he'd been _made_ to answer remained. As if he'd had no choice. As if he'd never have a choice with them.

* * *

A man was staring at her.

Isabel was used to being stared at. Since she was little and all throughout middle school and high school, Isabel Evans was a beauty that surpassed all her peers, and she knew it. In fact, she knew it so well that she'd learned from an early age how to take advantage of it, how to get away with things most kids her age wouldn't. For most of her life, her looks had proven to be a valuable asset. But still, some stares were not welcomed.

Lustful teenage boys she could deal and ignore, but it was grown up men looking at her like a piece of meat that made her skin crawled. She was confident enough in her powers to aid her in any circumstance, but the idea of those eyes following her every move was just… disgusting.

The man who was staring at her but trying not to look like he was doing so, was mercifully not of that kind. She couldn't feel the hideous vibes coming from him, yet his eyes on her were undeniable. She didn't even try to politely smile with a sidelong glance, her usual method to discourage the staring act. Frankly, she didn't have time to deal with it either, as she impatiently waited for the elevator to open.

Not even ten minutes ago she'd woken up from her only real good dream connection with her brother just to find that Liz was gone. Poof! Nowhere to be seen. That Liz had taken off to the hospital was uneasy as hell, but that she'd gone without waking her up to alert her of whatever danger Liz had perceived was downright infuriating.

Granted, none of them had slept more than five hours in the last five days, and they were all at the end of their ropes right now, but their main goal was to get Max out, and running blindly alone into the hospital was just plain stupid.

If Liz had gotten out of the car it could only mean one thing: She'd seen something. But why had she taken off without telling her? Had Liz seen her in danger, therefore wanting to leave her behind on purpose? Was her link to Max so important that it had to remain unperturbed? Worse, if Liz and Michael were getting Max out of here this very moment, she might just miss them. They would arrive to an empty car.

The doors opened and Isabel went in, followed by the man in his late forties, dark brown eyes trying to look straight, yet still following her every move. Luckily, Isabel was going to the third floor, the last information they'd collected, so the awkward moment in the elevator would be short. Not that she would be thinking about it, anyway.

Maybe she was the one who was supposed to stay behind and actually _follow_ the plan. Maybe coming here in their search was not the brightest idea either. Maybe—

"You have to help us out," the voice came so unexpectedly that Isabel's instant reaction was to turn to look at the man, not really understanding what he was talking about. His palms went to his sides as he moved backwards, almost as if giving her space, trying to not look threatening. In an instant, it all became so clear to her.

"Oh my God, you're one of them," she said, equally moving backwards, but her hand went up, not sure of what she was going to do, not sure if she could kill an agent in cold blood. Her heart slammed in her chest, and all thoughts about this being a mistake flew out the window. All she cared right this moment was to get out of the elevator alive and not a prisoner.

The man's eyes went round, maybe expecting to get blasted. He blinked then, looking at Isabel in a pleading manner. "It's all been a misunderstanding. Please Ms. Evans. Please."

_I saw my brother from your observation room. There's no misunderstanding what you were doing to him. _The thought passed through her mind before the agent could even finish. Rage ran through her veins, and it didn't seem so hard to kill one of the men responsible for Max's current state. It almost felt… _fair._

The elevator stopped, but neither one took their eyes from each other.

"Let me prove it to you. Let me help you," the doors opened as he finished, a couple of nurses and a doctor waiting to get inside. Instantly, Isabel lowered her hand and tried to smile, not sure exactly why. It was the third floor, and she didn't know what to do. Get down and possibly lead these people to Max? Or stay and fight if it came to that?

Filled with strangers now, they all hit the buttons to their destinations, effectively closing the doors and leaving Isabel and the agent at opposite sides of the elevator car. It started to move up, indifferent to Isabel's sickening feeling that she might actually never get out of it.

* * *

Max finally stopped panting as he slid down the wall. It was now clear to Dr. Hayden that he never should have allowed this man to get out of the bed, let alone out of the room.

Max had seemed to have some sort of episode, his mind going somewhere that his body found anything but comfortable. It'd only lasted a couple of minutes, but it was long enough to cause Hayden to start looking up and down the hall to see if any nurse or doctor would help him in getting Max to his room.

Inwardly, Hayden thought he sucked at this cloak and dagger thing…

Light-brown eyes finally refocused again as Max regained his bearings in reality, suddenly recoiling at Hayden's supporting hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, hey… it's okay," Hayden soothingly responded, years of talking to frightened kids coming in handy now. He was kneeling in front of Max, locking his sparkly, green eyes with Max's, trying to calm the younger man.

Alien.

Whatever.

It was weird how Hayden had gone from denial, to fear, to acceptance, to curiosity in the space of half an hour. He was still afraid, but an overwhelming part of him was just plain curious. He'd always been wanting answers since the night he'd seen those silver handprints on the kids' chests, and a little thing like learning alien life had something to do with it was not going to stop him now. It didn't matter if Max was an alien, a wizard or an elf. If what he did could be replicated, millions of future lives could be saved. Thousands of kids this very moment could have a quality of life that was otherwise robbed to them by an unforgiving cancer. And who knew how many other illnesses could be stopped?

"Are you okay?" he asked as he watched Max blink several times, his breathing returning to normal. It wasn't like Hayden wanted to dissect Max and see how he worked, but he couldn't deny that he definitely had a deep hunger for understanding how Max could do what he did. In a cold, practical way, he needed Max to stay alive. In a more humane look, whoever thought kids deserved a chance at life deserved way more than ending up half dead on an ER because of what he was.

Max tried to stand up, and Hayden gave him a hand. "We need to get you back. You're in no condition to be walking around. I'm sure your wife will agree with me."

"I'm okay…" Max halfheartedly protested as he got his balance back.

"Yeah, okay to go back. Your friend Michael would kill me if he saw you right now," Hayden seriously said, truly believing it as well.

Max leaned on the wall, staying very still for a second. The door on the hall that was beside him was ajar, and after staring at it for a moment, Max slowly opened it.

"Max…" Hayden said with a warning tone, not sure if it was because Max might disturb someone in that room, or because he wanted Max out of the hall before Michael caught sight of them. But the door kept opening a bit more, enough to reveal someone on a bed. Someone very small. A child.

"I… I think I know her…" Max whispered, frowning as he obviously couldn't recall who was sleeping in the bed. But Hayden knew, beyond a doubt, that on the bracelet of the little girl's wrist the words _Sarah Meyer_ were written in blue ink. He turned to look at Max with no idea of what to say, or what to do.

* * *

The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and after taking a second to consider his options, the assassin took a left.


	20. Hunting

**Chapter 19  
Hunting**

* * *

There were times that Colonel Harrington's job got difficult, but hunting down aliens came with its own definition of _difficult._

His relief at discovering Liz Parker-Evans on the hospital's hall had been short-lived as he began to face the logistics of covering the hospital and approaching these kids had started. It wasn't that he didn't know how to place his men in position, or how to talk to people, no; it was the knowledge that he wasn't even sure what exactly these human-alien hybrids could do that set him on edge.

He'd ordered the dosage on the tranquilizers to be half of what it used to be, in the hopes a lower dose would slow them down if it came to that, without risking their lives. Captain Whitmore had said Max's reaction had been too severe because he'd been shot twice, but in truth, no one knew how much was _too much_ for their hybrid biology.

Still, he'd ordered his agents to shoot at them as a last resort, hoping things would calm down once he found Max. He was also counting on the fact that Max would be too weak to be much of a threat, but then, he would have to find Max alone. And with Liz here, that was unlikely.

If Liz was around, _everyone _was around.

So it shouldn't have been a surprise when Harrington spotted Isabel Evans waiting for the elevator at the other end of the hall. He'd been told she was entering the hospital, after all, and he'd had purposely searched the first floor in order to find her, but what surprised him was who was beside her: Anders.

Their mediator extraordinaire seemed to be as baffled at finding himself right beside their alien princess as Harrington had felt when he had spotted Liz in the hall less than 20 minutes before. The General barely got a chance to see them entering the elevator before he had any time to react, but as his eyes glued themselves to the elevator's glowing numbers on the top, he reached for his cell phone and called the Lieutenant Colonel hoping his cell phone would have some signal inside the metal doors.

Not even two rings had passed unanswered by Anders when the older man hung up, watchful eyes registering that the elevator had stopped on the third floor. Out to the emergency stairs he went, taking two and three steps at a time, fleetingly registering the recent blood drops on the floor. He would never guess they were Max's.

Taking a deep breath, Harrington opened the emergency exit door looking composed. If Isabel was talking with Anders, then there was still hope. He had to talk to them, any of them, and present his… request, he guessed, for them to… _consider_, even if he was not exactly giving them options.

No one came from Anders and Isabel's elevator, and barely exhaling an exasperated short sigh, Harrington looked up to the ever changing numbers going up. On the other elevator, the doors opened letting out a couple of nurses and a doctor. He barely noticed out of the corner of his eye, but something prickled at the back of his neck. Something about the doctor, actually. About the way he'd walked, the way he'd subtly glanced sideways, as if he were unfamiliar with the place.

His instincts on high alert, Harrington let go of his vigil to find out where the elevator stopped next, and slowly and deliberately lowered his eyes and trained them on the back of the retreating white coat. No nurse waved to him, and he made no bee line to the nurse's station.

The elevator doors opened again, making Harrington turn to look at the newcomers, more people coming out, none of them Anders or Isabel. By the time his attention was back on the slightly-out-of-place doctor, the man had vanished. Harrington's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch, a decision being made.

The elevator forgotten, Harrington went off to hunt his new prey.

* * *

They were finally alone.

The last person had left the elevator, and the doors hung open into what looked suspiciously like the Pediatric Wing, as rainbows and butterflies and wall to wall happy faces met them on the other side. The nurse who had been traveling with them got out without sparing them a glance, and ever since then, the seconds had stretched to an impossible eternity.

Anders looked at Isabel, who looked as if she were about to cry in desperation. Just as the elevator doors started to close, she darted out so quickly it took Anders a second to register he had to get out there, too.

She didn't run, but nervously looked left and right, searching for something, or maybe for some_one _who would… what? Bear witness to whatever he was about to do to her? Take hostage so she could escape?

The doors ominously closed behind him, a swish sound being the only thing he could hear besides his racing heart. The nurse whot had come with them turned a corner, leaving the hall effectively deserted, a fact neither of them missed.

"I know this looks bad," Anders started, making Isabel look at him, breathing too fast yet steeling her eyes against him. She was about to do something harsh, and he had to stop it. "We didn't know, Isabel," he whispered, calling her by her first name in order to establish some sort of bond, "We honestly did not know. Fifty years of history had told us you were the enemy, but we know better now. We are offering amnesty, protection."

She was not listening to him, he could see it in her eyes. She probably thought he was buying time for some sinister purpose. "Tell me what you want, whatever you need, and I'll do my best to prove to you I'm telling you the truth. Isn't there something… a-a way for you to read my mind? Max said something about it… a connection, I think?" he was grasping at straws here, and he knew it, but if Isabel wanted to kill him, there was nothing to protect him. His mind was running through everything he had heard Max say, anything to prove to her he was telling the truth.

"It doesn't work that way," she said, her breathing calmer, though her eyes were no softer. At least she had engaged in conversation, and that was an enormous step forward. If she was willing to talk, then there was still hope.

"We thought Max was a threat, all of you. But when we got Max, he got sick. That's what you saw. We were trying to help him, and he started to tell us what was really going on."

She shook her head, unwilling to believe him. "I _saw_ him. I saw him four years ago when you first got him, and I saw him yesterday when he was dying in your hands. You're _monsters_."

The way she said the last word made Anders certain she was going to kill him there.

The elevator dinged, startling both of them. It opened, another nurse standing inside, moving out as the doors finished opening. Isabel and him stood still, rooted in place. It was absurd, really, how they were in the middle of life and death decisions, yet a random person walking by made them pause. The nurse looked at them curiously, and then continued on her way.

"Neither of us wants this, Isabel," he whispered as they both eyed the retreating woman. "You're not a cold-blooded murderer or you would have killed me by now. I'm not a cold-blooded agent, either. I found about you and your brother and Michael barely five days ago. I was brought in to be a mediator between you and the US government. I've been reading file after file from the Special Unit, and hearing what your brother has been telling us, and the truth is, I believe Max. I have little to go on but my instincts, and they tell me I have to trust you."

She slightly narrowed her eyes, hopefully changing her mind about him. He had not been exactly honest because he believed in facts, and there was little on either side of this problem. He knew people had been killed by silver handprints, but he also knew Max had saved children in Phoenix. Max was also not entirely alien, which exonerated him as the killer from forty years back. It didn't matter, anyway. Right now he would say anything to get her to trust him.

"I know what I saw," she stubbornly said, standing still. Voices were coming from the corner, their privacy about to be interrupted once more.

"We made Max sick unintentionally. For the past four days we've been trying to make him well again. Please, Isabel, _please," _he begged, as a couple and a child on a wheelchair came into view.

"If you're telling the truth," she said barely above a whisper as the three of them called the elevator, "you won't be following me now."

The doors opened, and in went the family, and with them Isabel. He was supposed to talk to her, he desperately thought, but he needed to gain her trust first, which meant staying in place. The doors closed with finality five seconds later. Reaching for his cell phone, he dialed Harrington without delay. He hoped Isabel took his word now that he had not followed her. He just had no idea what she would do once the other members of the Unit found her.

* * *

Cells lazily moved under the microscope as Holt took carefully detailed notes. An hour ago, he had realized that once Max left the hospital –by his own will, or the will of others- everything related to him would be taken away as well. It was just a matter of time before the biggest discovery of humanity, the existence of life outside the Earth, would be wiped out of this hospital.

With McConnell, Lake, and Cramer doing God knew what in the hospital, he was the only remaining doctor who had treated Max, who also had access to the tests being done. Shore, the FBI doctor who had been working with Max, was just as absorbed collecting data from what he was seeing under the microscope on the other side of the table, as Holt appeared to be.

There was not much progress to go on while waiting for the longer tests to be ready, or without a second sample from Max, so Holt had turned his mind to document this outstanding event. Maybe he would not be able to talk about this now, or in ten years, or in thirty, but at some point in his life, he would need proof that what he was saying had indeed happened. He had little hope he could retain any real samples, but he would get whatever he could. Even if it was only a detailed sketch and tons of notes.

In front of him, Dr. Shore seemed to have a somewhat similar idea. He was also taking page after page of copious notes, maybe writing down his memories of the last week. What had that man seen?

"Why did he have so many marks?" Holt suddenly asked, his curiosity beating his cautiousness.

"Marks?

"Needle marks, and wrist marks… We thought he had been…" _tortured_, the word died in Holt's mind. "Maybe it's none of my business," he hastily withdrawn the question. This was an FBI guy who had been remarkably vague in details about Max, why he had been ordered sedated, and what was going to happen to him next. Silence seemed like a better option right now.

Shore looked slightly surprised, and then thoughtful.

"He got his… _powers_ back, I guess. He was given two different drugs, one to suppress his abilities, and then another to stabilize him. After about six hours he got them back."

"I thought he had been mostly unconscious," Holt answered, trying to fit the medical pieces in place.

"_Mostly _is the key word here. Sometimes he would wake up for a few seconds, and would push the IVs and electrodes off with just a thought. He was barely conscious enough to do much else, thankfully. Of course, we had to start over with the IVs. The marks were unavoidable, unfortunately."

Holt simply nodded. He was unsure if he believed Shore, even if the pieces fit, and simply turned his eyes to his notes again.

Shore sighed heavily.

"If I can't convince you, I don't know how we are going to convince the others. Max seemed to know we were trying to help him, but chances are his memory is fuzzy at best. We need to gain those kids' trust for everyone's sake."

There was just no answer to that, Holt briefly thought, before a cell phone ring interrupted their conversation. Shore answered a second later.

"Bill! You're finally—" Shore's eyes went from relieved to slack to unbelieving. "Isabel is what?" He stood up, papers flying to the floor, making Holt jump as well. "No, they don't know either what's going on with Max. He's been alone all this time. They were searching for him just as we are—"

Whatever the rest of the conversation was, Holt never knew. Shore went out of the lab faster than a speeding bullet, leaving notes, samples, tests, all behind. Things were moving too rapid for Holt's taste… maybe it was time for him to hunt down his own colleagues and get to know what was really going on.

Two minutes later, he was at the nurse station, asking if anyone knew where McConnell, Lake or Cramer were. Soon after, he took a new direction.

* * *

The assassin had efficiently eliminated every obvious place he could find his target, and so he had started to look in the less likely places. The third floor, Cardiology, seemed as good as any other wing to investigate now. He had been told Max Evans was in the hospital, and would look drugged. That, at least, ruled out the several train derailment victims that were occupying every single free room this hospital had had available twenty four hours ago.

As the elevator doors opened and he stepped out, he took a second to get a feel of the place. On he went, following the hospital signs until he found the patient rooms. He had no chance of entering an intensive care unit without being noticed, so he was saving those for last. Besides, if his target was in the ICU, he surely was not going anywhere.

He didn't pretend anything. He simply opened each door with the confidence of someone who knew where he was going, and left just as swiftly, patients and nurses and relatives left to their own thoughts regarding the doctor who had entered and left without a word.

He was looking for a young man's face that had been sent to his cell phone about an hour ago. He looked for someone who was not obviously injured, just ill. Into room after room he went, until there were no more rooms in the hall. He turned the corner and started all over again. These patients were not supposed to have visitors, which meant fewer people to look at, and more nurses alert.

He didn't care. All he needed was six seconds alone with his target, and then he would be off.

He never wondered who his targets were, why had they been ordered killed, or if they had deserved second chances. That was not his job. His job was to follow orders which would help his country. He didn't have any particular feelings against these people. They were just targets, with unknown lives, pasts, and families. The only things that matter were their faces, and sometimes their names.

He fleetingly wondered what he would do if his target actually had a twin.

The rooms here were spacious, and required him to step further inside to check the patient. They were also single, and the third one to his left was empty. The bed was unmade, and the monitors were strangely on, silently marking flat lines.

He narrowed his eyes, and turned to look to the hall. Maybe his target had just fled, having a sixth sense for danger. They sometimes did.

He went to the next door at his right, which was slightly open. Tightening his grip on his gun, he entered the room, sure he had finally found him. He too had a sixth sense for these things.

He was right.

* * *

Four rooms down the hall, Harrington watched with alarm as the man he had been following for the past ten minutes reached for his gun. _Damn Washington! _was all he thought before he ran to save his charge. Even if he already knew it was too far to get there in time.


	21. Crossroad

**Chapter 20  
Crossroad**

* * *

The floor was slippery, and at the speed Liz was walking, it was just an accident waiting to happen. She was focused on reaching the corner, finally getting a sense of where Max was. In front of her, Michael was equally determined to find her husband, and bringing up the rear was Dr. McConnell, who had been trying to convince them that Max's safest option was to stay here.

She slipped so fast she barely registered she was falling. Her reflexes took over, her hand reaching for Michael's arm in an attempt to break her fall. Touching him, however, still felt as if she were falling, this time into a premonition.

Michael was falling.

In her vision, Michael was falling against the wall, a look of shock in his face.

Behind her, McConnell steadied her, effectively bringing her back to the present. Michael spared her a glance and turned to keep running, obviously anxious to get to Max and get him out before someone shot his best friend.

Liz blinked, trying to get her whereabouts and sorting out her last images.

"Michael!" she shouted as the vision became clear. Michael stopped, fear in his eyes as they looked at each other. "It's going to be you!"

* * *

"Her name is Sarah Meyer," Hayden was explaining in a low voice, trying not to disturb the little girl in the bed. Max's memory recalled fragmented images of her, and it was only now that he was beginning to understand some of the events that had landed him here.

"She has a pink bunny, and laughs all the time," he whispered back, his eyes attracted to her face like magnets. "She… she was left alone…" Max trailed off, his mind focusing on a green EXIT sign. He'd been trying to reach the exit, and then… nothing. His memories were still elusive.

"She was in a train accident," Hayden elaborated after a few seconds went by, probably sensing Max's distress. "She came to the hospital with others, and the ER doctors thought she was doing okay. You had been admitted right before her, and you were left beside her in the hall. You woke up, got down from your gurney, and… you must have seen her…" The last bit sounded uncertain, but Max could picture the scene. Smells and screams, awful and loud.

"I don't… I don't remember," Max finally said, the images merging with each other making no sense anymore.

"I'll get you some more water. Then we'll go back to your room."

"Is she okay?" Max asked before Hayden could move to the bathroom. He had a feeling he had left something unfinished regarding this girl, but knew nothing more beyond that.

"She's going to be. I sat with her for hours before finding you, and she was doing fine. She's lucky she was left beside you."

"She was?"

There was a pause, and Hayden sighed in resignation. "I hoped you would remember on your own… You healed her, Max. You stopped in front of her, put your hand on her chest, and then you collapsed. Do you remember that?"

Max started to shook his head, and then he remembered the pink bunny, laughs and shouts of joy, blond, curly hair in the sunlight. The only way he would know that was if he had connected with her. The EXIT sign came again into his mind's eyes. He had wanted to leave, and had been so close to getting out, but something had stopped him…

"I'll get you the water," Hayden said, and on second thought, "Max? _Don't_ heal her, okay? She's going to be fine, and you need your energy."

Max reluctantly nodded. He had not been thinking about healing her, though he probably was about to come up with the idea. It was clearer now, the first time he had seen her, hoping he could buy her a little more time. He had needed to keep running, but had discovered his last reserve had run out. All he got after that were blurry impressions of feeling too hot or too cold, fighting both Isabel and Liz so he could not be used as bait.

There was something wrong about that thought… Why would he think he was going to be bait? Max's head started hurting. Hadn't there been… someone? A man who had been worried about him? Some sort of doctor, who kept telling him he was going to be okay… He heard Hayden running water in the bathroom, while Max was desperately trying to grasp the man in his memory.

At his left, the door that was half-closed opened further, a doctor entering the room. Max turned to look at him, already feeling guilty for having intruded in Sarah's room and just about to apologize when their eyes met.

Max did not know this man, but he did know the intention written on his face.

"We really have to—" Hayden's sentence was never finished as the unfamiliar man looked at the young doctor, a handgun rising with lethal precision that would definitely finish Max, Hayden, and maybe even Sarah.

_No!_ Max thought, instinctively rising his hand, throwing whatever was left of his energy into blocking the bullet. The gun went off with a slightly muted bang, and ricocheted as it collided with Max's energy, effectively redirecting in Hayden's direction. In a fleeting thought, Max wondered why it had made a firecracker kind of sound, when every single Hollywood movie dictated assassins used very silent –and very precise- handguns. Liz would have told him in real life, silencers didn't work like that.

It didn't matter. As fast as that sound had come, behind Max the glass that Hayden had been carrying shattered in a thousand shards, at the same time that the pediatrician realized what was happening and threw himself to the floor.

The gun was still pointed at Max, the steely killer's eyes widened for a second, probably trying to understand why Max wasn't bleeding on the floor. Narrowing his eyes, he didn't deter.

Max had not enough energy to pull off his shield, but he had enough to block the opening of the barrel. Or at least, that was the plan as the gun went off a second time and Max threw everything he had on him at the same moment. Out of the room flew the man, and down to the floor went Max, his energy completely spent, an intense ringing in his ears. He had terribly miscalculated his own strength, though he could not exactly regretted it.

Was he shot? Was Sarah shot? Someone called his name while he felt his chest constrict as Liz's fear gripped him so tight he could barely breathe. He raised his eyes to see the gunman sprawled against the wall outside the door, his gun aiming at someone to his right.

Whoever was about to be shot, Max was powerless to stop him.

* * *

Harrington was right: he didn't make it on time.

The telltale sound of a gun firing came from the room his target had entered, sinking the Colonel's hopes further. Automatically, he reached for his own gun, the weight and shape of the tranquilizer gun unfamiliar in his hand. A second shot came right on the heels of the first, making the hall seem impossibly long as he tried to reach Max.

He was about 30 feet from the door when the man he had been following literally flew out of the room. As unexpected and surreal as it was, Harrington didn't lose a moment and took aim at the man. He shot him while the assassin was still trying to process what had happened to him. The dart hit the man's right leg, shocking him into action. Still lying on the floor, and half-sedated already, he raised his gun and shot Harrington without a second thought.

Harrington hardly felt the wound.

As adrenaline made everything sharper, the Colonel heard Michael before he saw him, and trained his gun at the corner. He tried to step forward but felt his leg weak, effectively preventing him to advance. Michael came into view, ready to shoot or whatever it was they did, but lost focus as he saw the assassin lying on the floor. It was that single mistake that Harrington took advantage of.

For the second time that week, Michael Guerin was shot.

Behind him, Liz almost ran around the corner but, thinking better of it, remained sheltered behind. Instead, another man in a white coat went immediately to attend Michael.

"I'm on your side here!" Harrington shouted, not even sure if Liz was still around the corner. He tentatively tried to walk with no success, clenching his jaw as pain shoot through his leg. No answer came from Liz, but the doctor who was finishing taking Michael's pulse turned to look at him. They were some 50 feet away, yet the doctor's expression was clear: things were wrong.

* * *

The last thing Dr. Cramer would have expected those sounds to be were gunshots. Yet somehow, when he turned the corner to reach Max's room and saw a man lying on the floor and another one standing bleeding from his left leg, it was exactly the first thing he thought.

_Boy, oh boy!_ They had finally come for Max, and these guys were not fooling around. If anything, that hall had never looked more bizarre that at that moment. Cramer came to a halt about 10 feet from the man holding the gun, another man sprawled unconscious in the middle of the hall, McConnell being on the other side of same hall, kneeling in front of none other than Michael, who looked unconscious.

"Max, are you okay?" the man who was standing shouted, his gun still pointing at Michael and McConnell, his blood soaking through his clothes. This man was dressed as a doctor, but Cramer knew better.

No answer came.

"Michael needs help here," McConnell said, looking straight at the gunman. "If not Shore's serum, surely something to counter effect the sedative. They don't really react well to those things."

"I need you to check on Max first," he stated, not lowering his gun. "I know Michael will survive a little longer."

"I'll do it," Cramer volunteered behind him, which made the gunman spin in his direction. The movement was too fast, and his leg gave out. The man cursed loudly, yet he kept hold of his gun, even if he was not aiming at anyone in particular, holding his leg with his left hand.

"You need to be checked too," Cramer said, approaching him.

The man shook his head. "Check on Max first, I'll live. I'm not so sure about him."

Cramer crossed looks with McConnell, and immediately went in search of their beloved mystery patient.

* * *

"_Max, are you okay?_" The shout came from outside, a voice he was fairly certain he had heard in the past few days, but right now his memory was not his best ally.

His head was throbbing at the rhythm of his heart, which was going a million miles per hour as he sat on the floor against Sarah's hospital bed. He had never had such an intense headache in his entire life, and it wasn't a welcome experience now.

He had no voice to answer, and no strength to stand, either. His mind was being pulled in several different directions, from Liz's intense fear, to Isabel's panic attempt to contact him, even if he was not asleep. His sense of Michael had just vanished, and he was getting increasingly worried at how defenseless he felt.

Liz's image appeared in front of him, looking at him with wide eyes, and Max knew she was afraid he had been shot. _Had_ he been shot? She reached for him, and just as her hand was going to touch his cheek, Dr. Hayden's face came into view, effectively dissipating Liz's projection.

"Max? Max?" Hayden was saying, his hands pressing on his neck, his eyes roaming his body for signs of injury. He didn't feel shot, but quite frankly, he couldn't feel much of anything other than his aching head.

People were talking in the hall, and Max's eyes tried to look past Hayden to the man who was lying still on the other side of the door. Were there others trying to kill him? Was the entire Unit here?

His impulse to run died rather quickly, as he could barely lift his hand.

"Stay still," Hayden hissed, not yet done looking for injuries. "Michael is going to kill me," he muttered, going back to Max's forehead. "But whatever you did, I'm so glad you did it," Hayden said with a small smile, turning to look behind him as another man entered the room.

Fearing it was another agent, Max tried to move further back, feeble attempt as it was, but Hayden got up instead. "Cramer! I'm so glad you're here. That man outside was—"

"Shooting at you? I heard. Are you okay?" Cramer asked, kneeling beside Max.

"I got just a scratch. Sarah didn't even stir during the whole thing. I'm not sure about Max though. He seems to be in some sort of shock, but he wasn't shot."

_I'm not in shock,_ Max protested in his mind, however when nothing came out of his mouth, he had to rethink that position. He closed his eyes tight, trying to shut everything out. _First things first, I have to get rid of this headache._

"What is he doing?" Hayden asked, sounding incredibly far away.

"I hope something good."

Max hoped the same.

* * *

Liz's heart slammed against her chest. She was petrified against the wall, breathing too fast and her mind going in too many directions to form a coherent thought. She had just projected herself to make sure Max was okay, and had been abruptly disrupted a few seconds later.

Max hadn't seem shot, but he wasn't exactly walking and talking. He had seen her, Liz knew, but now he had shut her out, retreating into himself for God knew why.

At her left, Michael was unconscious. She had tried to tell him he was going to get shot at the same time a muffled-cracking noise had come. It had been a gunshot, they had realized at the same time a second shot was heard, and Michael had turned and run, not caring what vision she had just seen. He had hesitated as he had turned the corner, and Liz's heart had sunk thinking Michael was seeing Max, wounded or worse.

Now Michael was lying on the floor. Dr. McConnell had gone to check on someone else. Liz was still behind the corner, with no idea of what to do.

"Is Max okay?" someone asked in the hall, and Liz held her breath for the answer.

"We need to get him to his room," someone else said. "We need to get everyone else out of the hall before someone catches on to what's happening here."

_Isabel,_ Liz thought, she had to find Isabel, regroup and then… come back?

"Liz? Liz Parker?" someone called her name loudly. Liz's mind froze. "I'm Colonel Harrington. I talked to you half an hour ago."

Logic told her there was no way he could know if she was still there or not, yet she felt trapped. His image came into Liz's memories, tall and broad, with grey eyes which looked intently at her. Part of her wanted to run, and part of her just couldn't leave Max and Michael behind to their worst nightmare.

"I was telling you the truth. Washington is offering you all protection. I'm not your enemy."

_Yeah, tell that to Michael,_ Liz thought, glancing at her friend. McConnell had ascertain Michael had been sedated, which was marginally better than being actually shot. She closed her eyes. If she stayed, she would be captured and used against Max. If she ran, she would still have a chance to find him again. Nodding to herself, she took a deep breath and prepared to run through the hallway where she had first come.

_Liz… _Max's voice whispered in her mind, calm and in control, halting any thought about leaving. _Stay._

That was all he said. How was she supposed to make a decision now?


	22. Hallways

**XXI  
Hallways**

* * *

Shore's phone rang. He had just hung up from Anderson telling him to meet him on the third floor, so his first thought was that his friend was calling yet again.

"Yes?" he simply answered on his way to the elevator.

"I shot Michael with a tranquilizer. How far are you from the third floor and what do you need to stabilize him?"

Harrington's voice took Shore by surprise to the point that he froze where he stood. Thoughts collided in his mind for a second, from the LSDA drug he had in his pocket to the fact that they now had Michael, and that hopefully the Unit still had no idea of where Max was. Plus, Harrington knew exactly where their fugitive alien was: _somewhere_ in Saint Paul's Hospital.

He blinked.

"I'm… I'm on the third floor already," he managed to answer, now looking for signs telling him where he was and where he could go. "I have an LSDA dose with me, though if he hasn't been shot with the ZEDIC serum, maybe it won't be as bad."

"Good, I'm at the Cardiology wing. There are two doctors here tending to both Michael and Max. They'll be ready when you come."

Harrington hung up.

_They have Max,_ Shore thought, closing his eyes in despair, his fleeting hope dying with a single sentence on a cell phone. After all he had tried to do, all the hiding and misdirection… _They have them both now._

* * *

Isabel stepped out of the elevator in the fourth floor. Every single one of her senses was on high alert, expecting an ambush from any direction. Her heart was beating too fast, her ears were hearing the tiniest of sounds; even her skin seemed too sensitive, almost tingling.

She had no idea if she was at radiology, maternity, or what, only that it was one floor above where her brother was. She also didn't know where exactly on the third floor Max was, but she knew that the Unit had arrived, so she had to be careful how she approached his room once she found where it was.

She felt it then: Michael's energy went out. She froze, not able to breathe, not able to even blink. _God, no. Please no. _

Time passed, seconds or minutes, she couldn't tell. The only feeling she had was a sickening hole where Michael's presence usually was. Stretching her hand to the nearest wall so she wouldn't fall, she shakily took a few shallow breaths. There was no doubt in her mind that it had been the Unit that had gotten Michael, but if he was dead or asleep, she couldn't discern. Her mind went searching for Max's, holding onto his vague sense in her mind. He had not been shot, and chances were she wouldn't even really be able to contact him if he was not asleep and dreaming, but she had to do _something._ She just couldn't let herself think right now what Michael being shot might mean.

"…It's starting to get out, you know?" A woman was saying in a low voice somewhere at Isabel's right. Someone in a room, with the door ajar.

"What— talking—?" the man who was answering her was further away, which meant Isabel could only catch a few words here and there. It didn't matter, because she didn't care. Isabel shut her eyes trying to ignore them.

"Cramer was not the only one operating on that girl, remember? He convinced the nurses and other doctors to keep the handprint quiet until he knew what was happening, but that was yesterday."

_Handprint? _One single word in that conversation was all Isabel needed to pay attention. It was the only word that would time and again be attached to her brother's actions.

"They're— about it? Who?" by the sound of the man's voice, Isabel was not the only one worried about where this was going.

"I overheard the nurses at the ER whispering something about a miracle. I don't know, it wasn't very clear, except for the part that involved an _angel's_ handprint. I couldn't listen any further, and I couldn't ask either, but Alec, this is not going to remain a secret for too long."

"But— distorted, right?"

"I don't think whoever is looking for Max is going to care the details aren't right. This would be proof enough."

That was more than Isabel needed to hear. It only took two strides to get into the room, all her worry hidden away by an imposing, cold face. The two doctors turned to look at her, startled.

"Where's Max?" she asked, the light in the hall and the room flickering for an instant. Their eyes widened, though in fear or recognition, Isabel wouldn't have been able to tell. "Where's my brother?"

"You are… like him?" the man tentatively asked a second later, positioning himself in front of the other doctor, who had gone pale. Isabel didn't answer, though her heart was a mile per hour. "If you are, this is probably not the safest place for you right now."

"I'm not going without my brother, so you better take me to him," she said, her voice didn't even quiver. It wasn't lost to her that this man was actually trying to _protect_ her.

"You know the FBI is already here, right?" the man asked her, glancing at his partner. "He won't survive for long out there. With you or with the FBI," he admonished.

"Just tell me where he is, and I'll do it on my own," this time her voice did quiver, slightly, not enough to make her look vulnerable, just enough to add some sentiment to her demand.

"Okay, I'll take you to him," the man agreed, "but you need to understand what's happening to him before you take him out."

* * *

Max was glowing. Not in the erratic, flickering way he had done before, but in a more subdue kind of way, one that was apparently covering the most part of his body. Honestly, in the years to come, Dr. Hayden would never find the right way to describe what exactly he was seeing. Probably because he was a bit on the shock side of things.

"Listen," Dr. Cramer said, lowering his voice, "they have finally come for Max. I don't know who, or what, just that the guy has a gun and shot Michael and your shooter out there. With a tranquilizer gun, don't worry," he added as Hayden's eyes widened in fear. "He knows about McConnell and me, and he will know about Holt through that Shore guy, maybe even Lake. But you, you don't have to be here, you know what I mean?"

Hayden thought he might know, but he wasn't really sure. So he didn't nod. He just blinked.

"You don't work here, you don't live in this city. As far as I know, you don't even exist. At least until someone says the opposite or _sees_ you, okay? So stay here, don't go out, don't do anything."

"What if they figured me out?" Hayden asked, finally understanding what exactly Dr. Cramer was talking about, giving him a way out of this mess without the bad guys ever knowing he had been involved.

"We'll deal with that bridge when we get there. Right now, I gotta take Max to his room and hopefully convince whoever wants him out to not take him. You look over Sarah, okay?"

Hayden glanced at the bed, thankful the little girl was too out of it to have noticed anything. Then he looked back at Max. The glowing was subsiding somehow, and it finally dawned on Hayden that this man, his elusive miracle maker, had just saved his life by deflecting a bullet that would have killed him. And he would probably never be able to thank him.

For a split second, his fingers flinched as he debated how safe was touching Max right this moment, and then he brought himself to take Max's pulse, glowing skin and all, in some small way trying to repay the favor, trying to see for himself how Max was doing.

He frowned.

"What?" Cramer asked, getting ready to carry Max back to his room, obviously not caring what contact with that glowing could do to him.

"His pulse is slowing down. Stabilizing?" Hayden asked rather than stated. It was always a guessing game with Max, for all he had seen.

"I'll let you know," Cramer said in a low voice, slightly grunting as he stood cradling Max._Not here_ the large man mouthed, emphasizing with his eyes what they had just agreed on, and then he was out in the hallway, closing the door behind him with his foot.

Hayden looked at the door for a couple of seconds, muffled voices coming from there, though he couldn't make out a word. He felt himself getting shaky, and sitting on Sarah's bed, he finally let go the breath he had been holding since Cramer had gone out.

Looking to the sleeping form at his right, Hayden slightly smiled. For the first time he had something in common with all those children with silver handprints: they had all been saved one way or another by an alien.

* * *

Liz didn't exactly _stay_ in the conventional sense of the word, but then again, she had more than one way to be around Max.

After a split second trying to decide how much help she could be to Max by giving herself up to that Harrington man or by running to the opposite side, she had finally concluded that she just could not abandon her husband.

McConnell had come back to check on Michael, and although he had not turned to look at her, he had subtly shaken his head, something Liz had taken as a _don't come_ signal from his part. Her heart beating too fast, she had desperately turned to look at the other side of the hall, somehow believing she would find Isabel or Maria or Kyle or _someone_ who would help her out.

She hadn't found salvation, but she had found a door. And that's when it had occurred to her that she could not only hide, but project herself to see what was really happening.

There was a man on the bed of the room she silently entered, who was thankfully asleep. Liz didn't know if someone would visit him soon, or if he would wake up any minute, but choosing the chair with its back to the door, she seated herself and hoped that anyone looking in would assume she was visiting here.

As anxious and nervous as she was, she took a deep breath and slowly let it go. _Find Max, find Max, find Max,_ she repeated in her head, following the elusive trail to her soulmate. He had shut her out not even five minutes before, so it was an overwhelming relief when she could find him again.

The pressure in her ears increased, her hands tingled, and the next thing she knew, she was standing in the hall. She saw a man carrying Max, and although she knew he was not unconscious, he sure looked like it.

On her left, a man in scrubs was lying against the wall. Had this been the man who had shot before Michael had run out? Further in McConnell was crouched over Michael's still form. On her right, the man who had shot them both, Harrington if her logic was right, was holding his leg, blood dripping to the floor, his gun not pointed at anyone though his eyes hawkishly followed Max's procession.

Her husband disappeared behind a door, and as she went after him, something unexpected happened: she _heard_ McConnell talking, "There's a common room we can take your shooter to. I'm not so sure about Michael though. And we'll need a gurney."

She had never heard –or been heard- while she projected. For one second she had to wonder if she was projecting, or had come to the hall in her real self.

"Dr. Shore is coming," Harrington said, "and Lieutenant Colonel Anders, to sort this out."

No one was looking at her, but this wonder of being able to eavesdrop vanished as her concern for Max returned. Whatever else Harrington added was lost to Liz's phantom ears.

She went through the door, part of her planning how to get him out, part of her just wishing to see him well at last.

She watched as the bigger doctor put Max on the bed, turning to look at her, or rather the door. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw that Max was also looking at her –– and hopefully not the door.

He looked worn out, pale and exhausted, but his eyes were focusing on her with an awareness that had not been there since the day he had left their motel room with a smiling _I'll be right back. _

Liz just knew that, whatever it took, she was getting him back.


	23. Awake

Thank you for coming back to read! Sorry for the long delay, but work got hectic, and writing got slow... Thank you all for the nudges and feedback! They are marvelous guilt-trippers that make me write faster :D

* * *

**XXII  
Awake  
**

* * *

A thought seized Max's mind with the strength to shake him to his very core: Liz's fear. She wanted to flee, but he needed her to stay. Deep within him he embraced her side of the connection but as awareness took him from the blackness of unconsciousness, he lost his grip on her and why he had told her to stay.

He first felt heavy, then cold as his mind processed his body's input- one that was telling him he was on the floor. The next thing he felt was a rather simple: He was _hungry_. Hungry enough to feel hollow inside, strong enough to make him want to bend over and hug himself. Yet his muscles didn't respond and soon other ideas intruded, half taking his mind off the demands of his body. He was sitting on a cold floor and he had just survived someone shooting at him.

Strong arms lifted him, carrying him outside. His body went limp, partly because he was too weak to do much about it but partly too because playing dead was his best chance. He needed time to put together the events that had landed him here. Vague memories of the last few days fleetingly passed his tired mind. A handful came sharp, his muscles slightly twitching as he braced himself for them. Yet they were hard to place in their chronological order, much less in any kind of context.

Carefully, he was laid down on a bed while his mind was trying to make sense of half forgotten words and half remembered feelings. A few certainties he rapidly organized: he had been captured, he had somehow escaped and now he was… at a hospital, he guessed.

"How are you feeling?" the man who had been carrying him asked in a slow, soothing voice, eyes looking at his face searching for something. Alertness, probably. Max felt slightly offended at being talk to as if he were a 5 year-old, and the feeling surprised him. _He didn't like to be talked to like a child,_ the knowledge came unbidden, a tidbit of Zan's life that felt as real as the bed he was in.

His mouth slightly opening, he realized he actually knew now more about Zan than he did of the past days of his own life. It wasn't much by any measure, but he felt intimidated by Zan's own self confidence that borderline in arrogance.

_But then again_, _Zan _was _a king_. The rationalization did little to appease his confused mind. Zan's knowledge wasn't terrifying, exactly, but remembering him right this moment was not helping him focus on more urgent matters.

Movement caught his eyes before he could say anything, and he turned to look at the door. His heart almost stopped- although all he wanted to do was shout _Liz!_ with all the strength of his being, he remained frozen in bed. He had to get her out of here, far away, out of danger.

"I'm not sure how to get you out of this to tell you the truth," the man said in a resigned tone, following Max's gaze to the door. Scared out of his mind, Max turned to look at the much bigger man, fearing what he would do once he saw Liz.

Except, he didn't do anything. Instead, he turned to see him again, and fully standing he repeated, "How are you feeling?"

This time the question was serious. The man was assessing how weak or how coherent Max was at the same time Max was trying to understand why he wasn't surprised to see Liz- whom, to his astonishment, wasn't saying a word.

His question was abruptly answered as another man entered the room and went right through her. She disintegrated for a second, and reformed the next. His heart skipped a beat and his eyes went wide for two seconds as his mind processed that Liz was projecting herself.

The older man went to the crash cart and started to search for something through the different shelves. "I'll bring Michael here, and the shooter needs to be moved somewhere, at least for a couple of hours before we can decide what to do."

At the mention of Michael's name, Max instinctively searched within for him, and found nothing. In front of him, he felt Liz, a mix of anxiety, fear and relief. Somewhere not far, Isabel was frantic, but Michael…

"What about the other shooter?" the man beside him asked the newcomer.

"He's talking to someone on his phone, but I… I don't know what to do. How's Max?"

All eyes went to him, including Liz's. "He hasn't said a word," the first man answered.

"Where is he?" Max finally asked, first to the man who had just entered, and then to the man who had brought him in. "Where's Michael?" His voice sounded a bit hoarse, and his throat felt too dry, but damn if he cared.

"Outside," the older doctor answered, looking intently at him, and then to the other man. "He's sedated, unfortunately, so we need to hurry. Cramer, could you help me bring him in?" A couple of syringes and a small bottle in hand, the man turned around and exited the room. This time, Liz moved to the wall to avoid him. Max got the feeling she hadn't liked being scattered a minute before.

"Don't move," Cramer warned, and then he, too, went out.

Alone in the room, Max finally turned to look at Liz, afraid she would disappear. "Liz…" he whispered with relief, sitting up on the bed, trying to get up. She went to him in a heartbeat, and even if her hand went right through his, he still got the familiar spark ran through his entire body. Her smile turned sad for an instant, maybe because she had forgotten like he had that they would not really touch. "Are you okay?" he asked a second after.

She nodded. _Are you?_ she mouthed. He couldn't hear her, but he understood. "Are you at the hospital?" she nodded again. Turning, she pointed back, in the general direction where she was, he guessed. "Isabel?" This time, Liz shrugged. "Michael's been shot… I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to get him out." _I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to get myself out, _he briefly thought. How could he get out when he had no strength over his enemy?

A third man entered his room limping, aided by Cramer. This was the man who was in charged, Max just knew, even if he was wounded. This was the man who had Max's life in his hands. Max swallowed hard as the men passed in front of him to be seated at his right on a chair by the end of the bed. His muscles tensed, his breathing increased, but just before he could go on a full blow panic, something inside of him made click.

_When you don't have the strength to get out,_ a thought came clear in his head from a past long forgotten, _then you do the next best thing: You negotiate._

* * *

Harrington wasn't exactly happy, but he was damn close to it. _Finally _he had found his fugitive alien- alive and looking better than the last time he had seen the boy. Now all he needed was to get him secure somewhere underground and away from prying eyes. Getting rid of the bullet wound on his leg came a very distant second in his list of priorities.

"Let me look at that," the doctor who was helping him into a seat said not three feet from Max's bed.

Ignoring him, Harrington turned to look directly at Max. "How are you feeling…" _your Majesty? Sir? _"Max?"

Now that he was in front of his quarry, the Colonel felt strangely awkward. In the space of five days Max had gone from being a dangerous enemy, an invader nonetheless, to the rightful, exile king of a far away planet. Or at least he had been given the benefit of the doubt to prove himself one way or the other. So addressing him had represented a careful thought that had not been needed before. He was not a prisoner in the negative context, but should he be treated as royalty?

He needed his lieutenant colonel to mediate in this mess ASAP. Harrington had called him not five minutes ago, and he was expecting him to be here in five minutes or less. He just had to make sure his refugee stayed put and alive for that time. And then they would have a nice little chat.

"Well enough to talk," came Max's response, oddly fitting Harrington's thoughts.

_You're not reading my—_

The half thought barely formed when the doctor pressed the wound on his leg. He swallowed the hiss and looked at the door, evading his pain.

"The bullet went through. I need to clean the wound, and you'll need stitches on this…" Getting up, the doctor went to get something from the crash cart.

"Is Michael okay?" Max asked the doctor, and then turned to look at him. Instead of a frightened boy, the eyes that met him were collected. Almost with authority.

"He'll be fine," Harrington simply replied. It had been either risking Michael's health, or Harrington's own life. Shooting him had been a necessity. Now that he was thinking about it, if he was really honest with himself, maybe shooting Michael had been the only way available to achieve any resemblance of a peace talk.

Returning with a clean cloth, the doctor pressed it against his wound. "Keep the pressure," he said as Harrington put his hand on it. Giving him a pointed look, the doctor stood and went out of the room. He'd had it worse, and certainly with no doctor to look at it five minutes after the fact. He was certainly grateful, even if his mind had more pressing matters to worry about.

Introductions were in order.

"I'm Colonel Harrington, head of the Special Unit—"

Before he could go any further, Michael was brought into the room, carried by the two doctors. Max eagerly followed their movements, sat straighter, probably wondering if he could heal his friend. _Don't be the hero,_ Harrington silently thought, knowing Max was awake for nothing short of a miracle.

They were moving to position the deeply asleep boy on the lovebird couch at the far side of the room. It was hardly fitting Michael in, but he doubted Michael would care. They exchanged medical words, worried looks, and finally the young one went to the crash cart again, and the old one went to Max.

"I'm glad to see you're better," he said in a gentle voice, flashing a light on Max's eyes. "Follow my lead…" the doctor said making Max look up and down, side to side. Clicking it off, he placed his hand on Max's wrist. "Headaches?" Max shook his head, looking mighty uncomfortable.

On the far side, the taller doctor was also flashing lights and taking pulses. The wound on Harrington's leg was starting to really hurt, but Harrington took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and kept the pressure. He could follow their conversation without looking at them. He could still hear them, that was all he needed.

"Is Michael going to be okay?"

"We have every reason to believe he will... Any dizziness?"

"Not… anymore… How long have I been here?"

"A couple of days. I wouldn't be surprised if things are a bit confusing and vague right now for you."

"Okay…"

"Thirsty?"

"Hungry, actually…"

"When was the last time he had a proper meal?"

Silence. Trying to keep the pain at bay, it took Harrington a few seconds to realize the only one who could answer that was him.

"Six days ago, probably," he said, opening his eyes to the not so gentle eyes of the doctor. "He couldn't keep much down afterwards. Dr. Shore tried to give him several things…" he trailed off, unsure about the proper order of the tests that had been performed.

"But I was too sick…" Max finished, almost in a whisper.

_You were dying,_ Harrington privately acknowledged. No matter what he said, the Unit was not going to look good in Max's eyes. Ironically, they _had_ been trying to save his life. They were the reason he was sick on the first place, but it had been completely accidental. With that kind of reasoning, Harrington briefly mused to himself, no wonder he was _not_ in the diplomatic world.

"Colonel Harrington?" A man shouted on the hallway.

"In here!" he yelled back. Behind him, Max and his doctor exchanged worried looks.

"Your shooter is… lying out there…" Lieutenant Colonel Anders said as he entered the room. Harrington sighed a sigh of relief. His mediator had arrived. Just in time.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Anders was walking into a mess. Again. He wasn't sure exactly how he knew it, but he just did.

Outside in the hall, doctor Peter Shore was checking the shooter's vitals. In his pocket, the good doctor carried the LSDA dose for Michael, the one drug that would stop the sedative taking a negative hold on the hybrid's body.

A week ago, Anders fleetingly thought, that last sentence would have been completely incomprehensible. What, with drugs, alien-human hybrids and proclaimed royalty… Regardless, his last words hung on the room, everyone knowing _something_ had to be done about _the shooter lying out there._

With Max on the bed, Michael on the couch, Harrington on the chair, and two doctors keeping watch, the room was certainly feeling crowded. Right on cue, Peter passed him by and entered the room. All eyes went to him as he went to Michael.

"How's he doing?" Shore immediately asked Cramer, taking a syringe out of his pocket.

"We've just got him here, but he's already having trouble breathing. He's getting cold too," Cramer relied, standing up to give Shore room to check Michael's pupils and pulse.

"He needs to be monitored. Max had too many drugs in his system by the time I got to him. I cannot be sure what Michael's case would be like."

"I'm out of beds in Cardiology," Cramer said, turning to look at his colleague. "You think you'll get luckier in Neurology?"

The reluctance to answer was evident on the older doctor who was by Max's side. "I think I can manage," he answered, then he turned to look at Max. "Do you know these people?" he quietly asked, as Cramer went out of the room- either to do something about the shooter or getting a bed in Neurology. It was anyone's guess.

All eyes turned to Max.

There was not much the doctor could do against the Special Unit, really, but if Max said yes in a favorable way, it would mean not only that he was cooperating, but that things would go smoothly on getting him into federal grounds.

Looking at Anders and then at Harrington, Max's eyes went to Shore, who turned to lock eyes with his patient.

"I know _him_," Max said, slightly inclining his head, narrowing his eyes a fraction as if he were trying to remember something. "He was dragged into this… in the middle of the night."

_How on Earth do you know that?_ Anders thought, immediately turning to look at Harrington. How many things these kids could do that they had no idea about? No wonder they kept finding Max. _It doesn't matter,_ he reminded himself. _At least Max trusts someone in here._

"I don't… really know the others…"

That was as good as an engraved invitation. Anders took a mental deep breath, and walked closer to Max. "I'm Lieutenant Colonel Anders. I'm here on behalf of the United States Government to offer you and yours political asylum and to reach further agreements between… all the parties involved." _Your people and mine_ just sounded too weird for Anders to say out loud.

Max's face didn't change, which gave Anders no clue as to what effect those words were having on the young man. Instead, Max turned to look at Shore, who was administering the serum to Michael.

Something beeped, startling Anders. The doctor by Max's side reached inside his pocket, and took his beeper out. "I need to go back. But Max… You're not alone." The look the older man gave Max was lost to Anders, who only got the doctor's back, but by the way Max nodded his understanding, it was clear to Anders there was more being said with the eyes than with the words.

How well did Max know this man? He had been missing for over a day now, there really couldn't be all that trust, could it? _Of course there is,_ Anders resigned himself. Now he had to add a whole staff of doctors to his ever-growing list of people involved. He had to give it to them though, they seemed to be nothing if not discreet. A quality that would come in handy when he'd have to deal with them when all this was over.

Before leaving, the doctor stopped by Shore's and Michael's side. "I'll send someone over to fetch Michael if I can't come back soon enough."

"Okay," Shore simply answered, holding Michael's wrist.

_Please don't die,_ Anders reflexively thought. What good would it do to have Max survive just to have Michael dying on their hands?

"I think what worries me the most," Max steadily said, "is that I have no proof of your intentions."

Even if he was sitting on a hospital bed, wearing hospital scrubs, hair disarrayed and dark circles under his eyes, there was not a single thing about Max that screamed weak. Not even whispered it.

"You do understand we didn't intend for all this to happen to you," Harrington spoke, holding his leg. It was until that moment that Anders realized Harrington was injured. He truly hoped it was the pain that was making Harrington get in the middle of this argument, but Anders had been around too many talks to know most people spoke without any tactical sense of the diplomatic world.

"I understand you shot me, drugged me, almost killed me… and that was the first time around."

_That was a misunderstanding_ was certainly not going to cut it.

"We are aware of many transgressions our agencies have done to you, Max, and we are prepare to make amends. This proposal is the first step into a bigger commitment." Anders held Max's eyes. His instincts told him they were working towards the same goal, that Max was not being difficult for the sake of it, but because he knew how to build his case. And then…

"You'll be safe kid. You just come with us."

…Harrington had to talk.

Max turned to look at him. "I don't think, Colonel, that you realize you're not talking to some 19 year-old kid who you've cornered in a hospital bed. We might be in a political crisis in my home world, but I'm still the leader of a confederation of five planets with full space travel capacity among other things. I do not take orders from you."

It didn't matter Max couldn't prove it. They were working under the assumption that he was what he said he was, and he could demand be treated as that.

This was not going to go smoothly.


	24. Time

**Chapter 23  
Time**

* * *

"Hey… hey…"

Someone shook her shoulders insistently, and Liz had no option but to leave Max's room and return to her body, something that always left her dizzy for a few seconds. The man in front of her was the same doctor that had been by Max's side not two minutes ago. The same one who had showed her and Michael were Max was.

"Thank God you're okay. For one second I thought someone had shot you too," he said as Liz tried to get her thoughts together. _McConnell. His name is McConnell,_ she remembered then. Behind him, a far bigger doctor was dragging someone in, positioning him on a couch by the far end. For one second she thought it was Michael.

"What—What are you doing?" she said, standing up too fast, almost losing her balance as McConnell steadied her.

"We couldn't leave the shooter lying on the floor, and we needed to regroup," McConnell explained. "This was the closest room. Why were you sleeping on the chair?"

The shooter in question was now lying on the couch as the other doctor took his pulse.

"He… He shot Max…" Liz whispered, her eyes going round. Anger and fear mixed in her heart at the man who had tried to take Max's life away. Her fingers tingled, and she reflexively closed them in a fist, lest her powers went hunting him down on their own.

"Max is okay. He's awake, and he's coherent, which are two things I wouldn't have thought possible an hour ago."

"I thought you were taking that man to Neurology," Liz said, her eyes glued to the sleeping form, almost daring him to wake up and give her a reason to blast him.

"This was closer," the younger doctor answered, finally standing up. "I'm Dr. Cramer, I take it you're Max's wife?"

"How do you know we were going to Neurology?" McConnell asked, frowning.

_Because I was projecting back there. _"I was— I can— Look, I just do, okay? We need to get Max out of there. I don't care what they're saying. That man lying on the couch is proof enough they are not serious about keeping him safe."

"We kind of have our hands tied here," Cramer said, while McConnell looked at her with eyes even narrower. "Shore showed up with the only thing that got Max's vitals under control, and probably Michael's too. Harrington shot our Sleeping Beauty there," he pointed out with his thumb to the unconscious man. "And most importantly, he's armed. Add the other guy who just showed up, and that means he's not alone."

"Do you know what Max wants to do?" McConnell asked her, ignoring Cramer's account.

She bit her lip. She really, _really _wasn't sure. "I think he's stalling for time."

"He and everyone here, it seems," Cramer muttered.

"He was really, _really_ sick not even a couple of hours ago," McConnell explained. "He seems better now, but that doesn't mean you should take him out of here."

"I know Max trusts you, but you have to trust us, okay? These people?" she said pointing at the shooter, "They'd lock him and Michael up and never let them go. You don't know what they did to him…"

McConnell sighed. Crammer looked back at the couch, making sure the shooter hadn't disappeared. "We want what's best for them," the older doctor said, his eyes tired. "We… we might be able to get them out, but then, what are you going to do? Run to some shady motel and hope for the best? They both need to be looked after."

Liz knew he was pretty close to the truth there: maybe not a shady motel, but certainly not a resting place. They would have to be on the move and quick.

She locked eyes with him, and momentarily forgot everything. For the first time she realized that she owed Max's life to these men. She'd seen at least three of them earlier, when she'd barely been able to make contact with Max. She shamelessly stared at him, the realization filling some cold part of her heart.

She wanted to hug him.

She also wanted to cry, to sleep, to just let go. She was so close to her husband, and yet there was an abyss among them. And now that Max _had_ been shot at and nothing had come out of it, all that adrenaline was _gone. _She felt dizzy for an instant.

"What about Hayden?" Cramer said, taking McConnell's attention away from her.

_Who?_

"What about him?" McConnell asked.

"Once this is over, you, Holt, Lake and myself are all pointed out. But Hayden has nothing to do with us or this hospital. Lake was the only one who contacted him because of the Phoenix incident. If anyone can go and watch over Max, it's our curious pediatrician."

_Who?_ Liz wondered again, feeling steadier now that plans were being made.

"That might solve the who, but not the where… or when," McConnell pointed out.

"I can take care of the when…" Cramer said with a smirk.

"What are you talking about? Who's Hayden?" Liz interrupted, frowning.

"Right now," McConnell answered, "he's the only reason I would agree to help you out."

* * *

"We need to establish some trust here," one of the Unit men was saying, the one that wasn't shot. From her invisible point of view in the corner, Liz's eyes went from the man talking, to the wounded man, back to Max's pale face.

While her body still remained in a room around the corner, Max's doctors were trying to find a way to get Max out from under these two men. The minute she had projected herself into Max's room again, she had asked him for one thing only: _Keep them here!_

They now had a plan, they just needed time to move people around. Since Max was awake and alert, Dr. McConnell was not giving her hell about not moving Max. The fact that he had already been shot and was unharmed did wonders to her heart too. Her vision had come and gone, and she couldn't be happier about the results.

Her second task was to pay attention and keep her eyes open. No other agents had arrived, and the agents in front of her were making no moves to call in reinforcements. Sitting quietly beside her was Dr. Shore, watching over Michael. McConnell was sure that Shore would take their side, but Liz was unconvinced. Either way, while McConnell and Cramer finished plotting Max and Michael's relocation, they still needed to know how many people they had to dodge.

"Washington had some communication problems," the man who had been shot said. _Harrington,_ Liz remembered, narrowing her eyes at him. He was the one who had told her Washington was offering protection. "That shooter should have been stopped long before he reached the hospital, and for that you have our apologies."

"I was doing fine a week ago, when _none _of you knew where I was. Now I can hardly account for the last five days of my life, and my best friend may or may not have a lethal reaction to your sedatives. How is coming with you an improvement? What happens next time someone has a 'communication' problem?"

This had been going on for the past ten minutes. Following her mouthed instructions, her husband was doing everything in his power to stall, going in circles. He wanted to be left alone. Harrington wanted to take him in. Caught in the middle of their arguments was the other guy, Anders-Andrews-Something, who was trying to negotiate an agreement, though it was clear he wanted Max to take the offer.

The thing about all this was how completely surreal it was. Max was hardly in any condition to physically fight any of the three men in the room, yet they wanted his acceptance to this deal first. She had the feeling that this meeting could go on for hours, even if in the end they all knew they were going to take Max by force if it came to that.

_Maybe Harrington was telling the truth after all…_ _Maybe Washington _does_ want to strike a deal._

"Hence the need to establish some trust," their moderator repeated, looking first at Max and then at Harrington, the same way her Chemistry teacher used to look at troublemaking kids at the back of the classroom. The look that said, "shut up and listen."

What came next, however, was growling. Max's stomach growling, to be exact. For one second, all eyes turned to him, and he blushed slightly. He did not lose his composure, however. Instead, he turned to look at Harrington, anger in his eyes. "You didn't even feed me."

"You were too sick for that," Harrington countered, clearly at the end of his rope. Before Max could go down that path, Dr. Shore stood up.

"That's enough from all of you. You should be resting," he sternly told Max, "You should be getting stitches," he pointed out to Harrington, who was holding his injured leg yet still looked imposing while sitting in a hospital chair. "I'll get you some food if you're up to it…?" he asked Max, unsure if that was a good idea.

Max nodded, not too eager, not even when his stomach protested once again.

"I think a break will serve us well. I'll call Washington to tell them we are in the middle of negotiations," Anders-or-Other said, sinking Liz's spirits. She couldn't stop the man from making the call without giving herself away. Max looked at her then. While he had known she was there the whole time, he had been very careful to avoid eye-contact with her. Now their eyes locked. They both had the same thought: their window of escape was getting smaller by the second.

* * *

"He's stalling for time," Shore said the minute he was out of Max's room, Anders in tow. Of all the things they had experienced together, this was by far the strangest of them all.

"I know," his friend answered, glancing backwards. "Harrington has orders, and Max has every right to mistrust us. But one way or another, you know they're coming with us."

"Good luck with keeping him _and_ Guerin locked up in a prison…" Shore pointed out.

Anders sighed. "It doesn't help if you don't see it's for their protection."

They stared at each other in silent contemplation: for the first time it seemed that they were standing on opposite sides of a line.

"You'll do him a great service if you remain with Harrington," Anders said, his eyes softening. "You care so much because he's been your patient for the last four days. And you're right, he wouldn't have been in this position if we had known the effects of the sedative on him. But the truth is, that we didn't know, Pete. We didn't make him sick on purpose. And we sure as hell aren't going to do that again."

It was clear to Shore that Anders believed what he was saying, but he had left the military four years ago precisely because he had stopped believing that all orders had a good reasonable thought behind them. If tomorrow Washington decided against Max, the twenty-year old would never see the light of day again. Still, he had to play along. If worse came to worst and Max and Michael were taken, Anders was right: he could help them from the inside.

"You're right…" he said, looking down the corridor, wondering where McConnell and Cramer had gone. "It's been a very long week… that's all."

Their friendship seemingly restored, his friend relaxed.

"Where do you think Isabel is? Second floor?" Anders asked out of the blue. "He's stalling for time like you said, but I doubt his wife is the only one around."

* * *

"She's taking too long," Isabel's words quivered, and she knew she was one minute away from breaking down. She needed answers, about Max's condition, about Michael's whereabouts, about what to _do_.

"I'm sure she's on her way back," Dr. Holt reassured her. She didn't believe him.

By now, he and Dr. Susan Lake had explained to her what had been happening to her brother for the last twenty-four hours. Not ten minutes ago, Lake had gone out to find the answers to all of Isabel's immediate questions.

"I am sure the FBI will see the importance of not moving Max. And once he _can_ be moved then you can take action and take him far away from here."

She wanted to agree. She really did., but she just stayed there, looking at the door. Part of her wanted to tear down the entire floor until she found Max. But another part of her knew she needed both information and allies if she was going to pull off any kind of rescue. It was like being back at Eagle Rock Base all over again. She shivered.

Somewhere, out there, Liz was also scouting the halls and her only backup now was Kyle and Maria, assuming Kyle was awake.

Getting Max out was just one problem. Caring for Max once they were out was an unknown variable that Holt was eager to point out every minute that went by. She didn't want to get Max out of here just to have him die in her arms, but _damn it!_ Was letting him back into that hell an option? Would he survive it a third time?

_What do you want me to do? Max… what should I do?_

* * *

"You need to convince that Hayden guy to help us out," Dr. Cramer said while he was pushing an empty gurney down the hall. Dr. Susan Lake was walking beside him, bewildered. She hardly had any time to process the fact that not only had Max gained some of his health back, but that he had been found by a shooter that the FBI had stopped. The details were already getting blurry.

"Wait, so they don't want to harm him? They're on his side? That doesn't make sense…" she trailed off. Cramer grimly shook his head.

"Hardly anything makes sense around here in case you haven't noticed…" he humorlessly said. "A guy who glows, a government conspiracy… and us, smack in the middle. But damn if I'm going to let those men take Max away after all he's been through. No one deserves that treatment. No one."

Susan didn't have that conviction, exactly. She had something _more._ Since she had connected with Max a few hours back, she'd acquired a new sense of what dread and fighting for one's life really felt like. She knew first hand Max was not a bad guy, she just couldn't put it into words. The images were elusive, the feelings fleeting. The terror the words FBI Special Unit inflicted on her was too real to not be believed, and that was more than proof to her that Max needed to get away from them.

God, she wanted a cigarette. _Right now._

Part of her just wanted to quit. Go right through the Exit door to a warm shower and a soft bed and forget she'd ever been tangled in an alien-government conspiracy. Part of her was too tired to really care. But unlike Cramer who had seen Sarah in his OR and Max in the ICU, Susan had seen the exact moment when Max had healed the girl. If she was going to be honest, there was also the part that shared Hayden's curiosity about _how_ Max had healed those children. Her chances of finding out were slim, but if the government took Max, she knew _no one_ was ever going to find out.

"Okay," she said, keeping up with Cramer in the hall. "What's the plan? What does Hayden need to know?"

* * *

This had been a long, long shift, McConnell reflected as he quietly sat in a room between Liz and their unnamed shooter, the unconscious patient in the bed hardly counting as anything besides part of the background. If all went according to plan, in a few hours, McConnell could very well be facing charges of aiding an illegal alien, for starters, and who knew what else afterwards. Treason? Hiding a criminal? Was Max even a criminal?

He sighed. He didn't like where all this was heading. Sending Max and Michael away with Hayden was hardly better than sending them with Shore. At least Shore had the knowledge and the equipment to treat their half-human patients. Hayden would only have his own wit and twenty-four hours of notes. If Max relapsed or Michael didn't come out of his sedative-induced sleep, all this would be for nothing.

In the chair, Liz twitched. It was her display of fear that had convinced McConnell to try this. _You don't know what they did to him…_ she had whispered, and McConnell knew she was not talking about the past four days.

Now, feeling utterly alone despite the other three bodies that were occupying this patient's room, McConnell contemplated the incredible facts he now knew about life: there was a man who could heal with a touch; he was married to a girl who could invisibly walk the halls.

She had called it "projection", a term that vaguely rang any bells on his mind. Once they had decided on a plan, Liz had sat down again, and now was presumably telling Max to gain as much time as he could. McConnell had no way to know if that was happening or not.

The door abruptly opened, scattering all McConnell's thoughts to the wind. He stood up immediately.

"The sister is here," Cramer said, followed by a very nervous looking Dr. Lake. "Lake says she'll talk to Hayden."

She nodded twice, glancing at the sleeping shooter and at Liz's seated form. "What's wrong with her?"

"Don't mind her," Cramer said, going to get supplies from a crash cart on the opposite side of the room. Slightly shrugging, she turned to look at McConnell.

"Holt is with Isabel now, and she's really agitated. Now, I know Hayden is at the end of this plan, but how are you going to get Max and Michael out of here?"

He didn't have time to answer her. Gasping for air, Liz came to her senses, eyes wide open. "They are calling— they just got out of the room. We have to get them out now!"

Without another word, McConnell abruptly left the room and walked straight into Shore's surprised face.

* * *

"Whatever your plan is, I have a better idea," Shore said as the other three people in the room gathered at McConnell's back. Especially the young girl who Shore had never met but had seen pictures of not five days ago: Max's wife.

She looked at him warily. They all did.

"Anders is checking in with Washington," he explained, "It's now or never."


	25. Opportunity

**Chapter 24  
Opportunity**

* * *

Being hungry was the least of his problems, Max knew, as silence descended in his room.

Along the wall in front of him, Michael remained sedated. At the corner of Max's bed, the head of the Special Unit watched Max like a menacing watchdog. Harrington's steely eyes were on him, barely blinking. Even if Max could get up and run, he couldn't leave Michael behind. Was his friend all right? Last time Michael had been shot, that day when they had been trying to escape in the paper warehouse, there had been something wrong with Michael's lungs. _I cannot heal him now,_ he wearily thought. He barely had enough energy to stay awake. The most he could manage would be to collapse and lose consciousness again. And _that_ he couldn't afford. Yet whatever Liz's plan was, it was happening soon.

"What is waiting for you out there, Max? More running?" Harrington's question broke the silence. Max turned to look at him, expecting to find a smirk. Instead, the man was as serious as ever.

"What is waiting for me here, Colonel? A sure and painful death?"

They stared at each other for a moment. It was like their somewhat mediator Anders had been saying: they needed to build trust. Easy to say, yet Max was way past trusting these people. He would take running over surrendering to the FBI every single time.

"Anders has all the right words," Harrington said after a moment, glancing at the door as if expecting someone to come in. "But I'll say it plainly to you: I have orders to bring you back to headquarters as a political refugee. If you run, you're going to slap that trust and make everyone believe you want anything but a peaceful resolution."

Max was too tired to negotiate as Zan would, and he was too scared to believe this man.

"If I don't run, and your orders change, I'll be out of options and in your hands." He was feeling dizzy again. If Liz didn't act soon…

"We both have the same problem, you see?" Harrington pointed out with a slight sigh, changing his position on the chair while keeping pressure on his injured leg. "I cannot trust your intentions any more than you can trust mine. So, what's it going to be? If you could walk away right now, would you keep running while I keep chasing?"

Max turned to look at Michael, unable to say _yes._

"What's really going to happen," Harrington continued, "however Anders will phrase it, is that you two are going to come with us. You are going to be debriefed. You are going to be relocated. And you are going to be nice about it. If you have nothing to hide, this is a win-win situation for you. You'll gain us as allies, and you'll stop running."

Anger arose in Max's mind. Why did this man think that was good? "I'll become a glorified prisoner, and that's assuming you'll even trust our version of events. And what happens when you get curious about us? Would I get a polite request to be your lab rat for the day? You don't know the first thing about what we fear, Colonel. That's the real problem here."

Whatever Harrington was about to say, he was interrupted by one of the hospital doctors who had been helping him, the big one. Cramer. He looked at Max for a second, and then went straight to Harrington. He was carrying a platter with several things, from gauzes to syringes. He had come back to apply the stitches to Harrington's wounds.

"Let's see…" Cramer said, oblivious to their previous talk and their heated impasse.

"Now, this right here, Max," Harrington pointed out, taking his hand away from his leg, "should tell you how serious I am about my orders. I got shot on your behalf."

"How are you feeling?" Cramer asked, glancing at Max.

"I'm worried about Michael," he said, the need to check on his friend growing exponentially now that Harrington was not monopolizing his attention.

"I'm sure he'll be fine…" Cramer nonchalantly said, getting the syringe ready. The sight of it made Max shiver. He remembered for a moment having seen Shore by his side, holding him down, someone else getting a syringe ready. He closed his eyes, willing the image to disappear. He did _not_ want to remember the last five days of his life.

"This is going to sting a little…" the doctor muttered while Harrington looked at the door.

"Where's Shore?" the Colonel asked, slightly frowning as the needle went in.

"Just around the corner," Cramer smiled, placing the syringe on the platter a moment later. "Now, Max. Do you feel well enough to run?"

Both Max and Harrington turned to Cramer at the unusual question. It was Harrington who understood it first. "What did you give…"

He never finished. Slowly, he went forward, Cramer catching him in mid-fall. "Just a little something for you to sleep tight…" Cramer said, getting Harrington back on the chair, unconscious.

Harrington had officially been taken out of the game.

"I—I'm not sure…" Max tried to say, watching Cramer taking Harrington's pulse. "I mean… how far I can run…" Max tried to sit, his heart accelerating at the prospect of escape. Cramer finished with the older man, and went to Max's side.

"Don't worry, you're not running anywhere," he pointedly said, taking Max's pulse now. "You shouldn't even be _thinking_ about running anywhere, Mr. 111 fever."

"But… Harrington…"

"It's called misdirection," Cramer answered, going to check on Michael last. "We are making them believe you are going away, but in reality, you're staying two floors up."

"What?"

"Dr. McConnell is setting your room up. Shore is distracting Anders. Now we just hope they'll buy it."

* * *

Dr. Shore closed the cell phone with finality. He'd just informed the Special Unit that Harrington was missing and Max and Michael were on the run. Dr. McConnell and Dr. Lake were already gone, the first to the nurse's station, the second to get Dr. Hayden. If the timing was correct, Cramer had already taken out Harrington and was getting Max and Michael ready. Liz was the last one remaining in the hall with the master mind of this plan, Dr. Shore.

She wasn't supposed to, but there was no way in hell she would let Shore out of her sight. Not with Max's and Michael's lives in the balance.

"Now, Elizabeth, go get Isabel and meet us on the fifth floor before she gives the plan away by being caught in the middle of the hospital," he told her as he looked down the hall.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked bluntly, her eyes going down the hall to Max's room.

"Because I know Washington politics and I do believe Max deserves better. Now, go get Isabel."

"So they were lying? About the deal?"

"No, they were serious about it. Just not everyone agrees with it. Now, Ms. Evans, I really need to find Anders and get him going in the right direction. We all have something to do, go."

* * *

"Something's wrong," Isabel said, pacing from one corner of the room to the next, her only company a young doctor who didn't look to be over 30. "You said Max was stable," she pointed out, her need to flee this place crawling under her skin.

"I said he was stable _for now,_" Dr. Holt pointed out, writing down something on his laptop. Although he looked calm, the tension in his eyes was betrayal enough of his own anxiety. The other doctor, Susan Lake, had left them alone to find out what was going on about fifteen minutes before. "With the fever he was sporting, and his general intolerance to drugs? I wouldn't bet on him recovering in the next twenty-four hours."

"We don't get sick," she exclaimed, feeling so exposed by saying just that much. "Whatever they did to him, he'll fight it."

"Oh, I know he will," Holt said with patience. "But I doubt he's going to keep fighting it for twelve hours straight."

"I need to find him. Find them. Michael's… he's just gone."

The light flickered in the bulb above, a sure sign Isabel was losing her grip on her emotions.

"Hey…" Holt stood up, trying to soothe her, she guessed. Maybe wondering if he should flee. "Look, I'll call her, okay? See what's taking so long…" he offered, taking out his cell phone.

He hadn't even dialed the first number when the door opened.

"Liz!" Isabel half shouted as she saw her sister-in-law enter. "Where are they?" she asked, eager for answers more than ever.

"They are taking them to the fifth floor. They want to hide them," she explained, turning worried eyes to Holt and then back to Isabel. "They say we need to stay out of sight, so the Special Unit will buy that we are on the run again."

"What? _What?_" Isabel asked, outraged. "We have to get them out of here, not hide in a corner!"

"He almost died," Holt interrupted from his spot in the room. "I admitted him yesterday, right before the train-derailment chaos started. He saved a little girl across the hall two hours after that, and it completely drained him. The longer he stays here, the better his chances are."

Isabel closed her eyes at that. _Of course you would,_ she thought at Max. She wanted to strangle him, to yell at him, but it was impossible. _Of course you would,_ she repeated, feeling both proud and resigned by this point, and so, _so_ helpless.

"We have to stay…" Liz whispered, turning to looking at her right as if she could actually see them. "They kept telling me, too, that Max might get worse in the next few hours, and he did look wiped out."

"You _saw _him?"

"Yeah, sort of… They've been helping Max since last night…" Liz trailed off, looking anxious herself, her eyes going to Holt without really knowing what else to do. Shaking her head, Liz turned her attention to Isabel. "Shore said to stay out of sight , so we just need to blend in," she said in a practical tone. _Hiding in plain sight_ was Max's favorite technique.

"Okay," Isabel said, determination fueling her. "It's a hospital, right? Filled with patients, nurses and doctors… We just need to look the part," she murmured, looking at Liz's clothing. Her nerves were at the frying point, so concentration eluded her at the moment.

"We're caught in the middle here," Holt started to say. "We have too much conflicting information coming at us. Look, we want him safe, away from anyone who hurt him, or who might hurt him, that much is clear to us. Let all this die down get him better, let the government cool off, and then maybe something can be achieved."

Getting the image right in her mind, Isabel's hand swept over Liz's jeans and black sweater, transforming them into minty scrubs in the space of five seconds. "You haven't been a blond in a while," she said, going to the hair.

Something dropped to the floor, and both Isabel and Liz turned to look at Holt, who was sitting uneasily on his stool, his notes sprawled at his feet, his mouth halfway open.

"We'd better hurry," Isabel said, turning her attention to her own disguise. Liz went to Holt, maybe to explain, maybe to ask some questions. Isabel didn't care. She turned her attention to changing her clothes into scrubs and a lab coat, and turned to call Liz. Her sister-in-law was actually _hugging _Holt in a rather awkward manner.

"You saved him," Liz said a moment later, "Thank you."

And with that, they both left the room.

* * *

There were many awkward things Lieutenant Colonel Anders had done in his life in the name of diplomacy and international cooperation. Waiting for an alleged alien king to be alone in his room didn't even have a ranking on that list.

He'd heard Shore's call to the Unit saying the kids were on the run and Harrington was missing. But Anders had _seen_ Max not fifteen minutes before. There was no possible way Max would have been able to pass Harrington's perimeter outside the hospital, not in the state he was in, and much less with an unconscious Michael to slow them down.

So he'd tagged along behind one of the doctors who had been helping Max, and had learned from a helpful nurse that the good old doctor had requested a private room on the fifth floor. So he'd waited, and sure enough, in had come Michael, and a few minutes after, so had Max.

He didn't know where Harrington was, or his long time friend Shore for that matter. But that was of little consequence compared to what he had to do now: Sit down with the leader of another planet, convince him the United States had his best interests at heart, and hope for the best.


	26. Trustworthy

**Chapter 25  
Trustworthy  
**

* * *

Three pairs of eyes looked anxiously at one Dr. McConnell, the unspoken leader of their alien conspiracy. _How did I end up in this position? _the neurologist asked himself as he was absently drinking his third cup of coffee in the past hour. His "team"—the three doctors that had been treating Max for the past twenty four hours at Saint Paul's Hospital—was all assembled in the quarantine area, contemplating the mess in front of them. Not six hours ago, Max had blasted his way out of the glass walls and had blindly run to the third floor.

"So…" Dr. Holt said, eyes surveying the broken glass, "maybe we can say we found it this way?" he half-heartedly joked. Beside him, Dr. Susan Lake blanched. The young pediatrician was the most reluctant of them all to keep playing this game of hide and seek.

"I think we should get our story straight," she said, looking at McConnell first, Holt next, and last Cramer. She had dragged the cardiologist into this out of her concern for little Sarah Meyer, the girl who Max had stopped to heal before his failed attempt to escape.

Cramer smiled at her. "We treated a man who we suspected had been abused, found out he was not exactly human, and decided to help him until we knew what was going on," he said, turning to look at McConnell for approval.

"When you say it that way, it sounds so simple…" she whispered, looking at the floor.

"Maybe we should all get a lawyer," Holt said with a resigned sigh. "There might not be protocols on declaring an-honest-to-God alien is in your hospital, but I'm pretty sure we must have broken a dozen laws by aiding him and not reporting what was going on."

"We'll deal with that later," McConnell said. "We have a starving Max and a sedated Michael hidden in the fifth floor, the shooter and the government man hidden in the third, sleeping off their own sedatives, _and_ we're all scheduled for surgeries in a few minutes. Now Max's family—or whoever they are—seem perfectly capable of starting War of the Worlds in our halls, and none of us will be out there to act as referee. Any suggestions?"

They all blinked as one.

The train derailment had left almost a hundred critical patients scattered through all the major hospitals in the city, and theirs was no exception. The ER was now calming down, but the OR had its hands full. They couldn't keep running around, hiding aliens and feds alike any longer.

"What about Shore?" Cramer asked.

_What about Shore, indeed,_ McConnell thought, barely feeling the effects of the caffeine. He had not slept in 26 hours, and he did not have the same stamina he'd had in his residency years.

"I guess we don't have much of a choice," McConnell said with a frown. "We _are_ trusting his plan right now. Hide Max and Michael, tell the feds they are on the run, and hopefully they'll follow a false trail and leave an opening for our friendly aliens to escape."

"Hayden might be willing to help," Lake said, her voice not sounding all that sure. The pediatrician who had treated the "miracle" children in Phoenix was still around, waiting on the last tests done to Sarah. The handprint on her chest would soon disappear, and he was more than eager to get as much information about it as he could. He was not about to betray Max, McConnell thought, but he was not on the team either.

"Let's leave Hayden as a last resort," he said. His pager beeped loud and clear, startling the four of them. Time was up. "Okay, we'll do this the same way we've been doing it all day long: one step at a time. We got them as secure as we possibly can, and now we have other lives to save. Let's just hope they don't blow up the entire hospital until one of us is free to check on things."

_Plus, I gotta order Max something to eat_, he absently thought as they all looked resigned.

"What do we say when they ask about this mess?" Holt asked before anybody moved.

"We just found it this way," Cramer said, pushing him out.

_So much for coming up with an explanation…_ On the other hand, there were not enough hours in the day to hide fugitive aliens, mediate between interplanetary conflicts, _and_ coming up with a suitable excuse for the half destroyed quarantine area. _Surely those government people will love to explain it, anyway… _McConnell thought with one last glance.

* * *

The door to Max's room was the last obstacle in a long, _long_ list of fears and nightmares that had plagued Liz's mind ever since Max's connection had disappeared almost a week ago. Isabel was right behind her, and they both pushed the door open, finding Michael deeply asleep in one bed, and Max eagerly waiting for them in the other. He'd felt them coming, his connection to her growing stronger by the minute.

She went to him, almost tackled him, really, nothing else in the world existing but the feel of Max's embrace. It had been too long since the last time she had held him in her arms. She was not going to let him go, _ever._

Hugging him, with tears running down her cheeks, Liz managed to forget they were still in the hospital, far from being safe. _You're alive,_ she whispered in her mind. He was holding her as strongly as he could, and it wasn't much. He'd barely eaten anything, and he'd been unconscious for the better part of six days. _They were right, you do need to rest. _

"I love you," she said, the only three words that mattered. She'd been so afraid she'd never get the chance to tell him that ever again, that finally saying it to him felt as if she could breathe once more.

"I love you, too," he whispered back, sounding tired yet so relieved. Sounding like her, actually.

Reluctantly, she had to let go of his embrace. "How are you feeling?" she asked, taking notice of his pale skin, and the dark circles under his eyes. He'd lost weight, she could tell, but he was alert, his eyes going for a second to Michael and Isabel on the other bed. His sister was looking at him with concern, but Shore had told Liz Michael would be out for at least a couple of hours.

"I feel… better?" he said, sounding more like a question. Liz knew that he wanted to make light of it so she and Isabel wouldn't worry, but with escape plans completely depending on his strength and health, he didn't have the luxury to spare their feelings. He sighed. "I'm a bit lightheaded, and not feeling too strong," he admitted.

"Your powers?" Isabel asked, sitting on Michael's bed, one hand holding Michael's limp one.

"They are there, I'm just… wiped out. Sorry sis, I'm not much of a help right now," he said, Liz's hand holding his.

"Max," Liz said, with all the intention to reassure her husband that he _had_ to rest and not think about fighting, when a vision hit her.

On the roof of a building in front of the hospital, an agent was patiently watching every single person coming from the ER entrance into the parking lot. Although there was a sea of people, his task was relatively easy since the entrance was not that big. Liz saw him, as clearly as if she were standing next to him, his rifle in position, calmly humming to himself.

Snow was starting to fall. On the radio, reinforcements were being called away, the fugitives presumed on the run. He was about to leave his post, when his whole body tensed. Liz followed his gaze, trying to discover what he had seen.

"Central, we've got a situation on entrance C. I've made contact with one target," he quietly said. Liz's heart sunk.

_Maria._

"Oh God," she said back in the room, grasping for air. "We've got… we've got to stop her," she whispered, feeling vaguely out of place as her vision ended.

"Stop who?" Isabel asked, at the same time that Max hold her hand tightly.

"Maria. She doesn't know what's going on, so she's going to come. There's a guy, a sniper I think, and he's about to leave the roof in front of the ER entrance when he spots Maria coming in."

"_What?"_ Isabel asked, already standing.

"When Michael was shot, she must have felt it. She must be going crazy not knowing what's going on," Liz said, her mind racing. _How do we tell you everything's all right? _

When they were on a crisis involving the Unit, they didn't use cell phones. Too risky. _God, I would kill for one now. _

"I'll go," Isabel said, clearly not liking what she was saying, but determined all the same. "I'll go out there, and stop her. I just have to disguise myself better."

Liz tried to shake her head. She had no idea if what Isabel was planning would work, but she didn't like the danger her sister-in-law was placing herself in. Plus, leaving Max and Michael unprotected was not helping matters.

"Iz, are you sure?" Max said in that quiet tone of his.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Isabel said, "but if we don't tell Maria to stay away, she's going to drag them back in. We also need to figure out where we should go next. Do you know how long I have?" Isabel asked Liz.

"I think… I think snow was starting to fall. Once that happens, we'll know the Unit is really gone. But I don't know how soon that might be."

"Then I'd better go," Isabel said, circling Michael's bed and going to Max. "Don't disappear on me again," she whispered as she hugged him.

Already dressed as a doctor, it only took Isabel half a minute to turn her hair into a long mass of black curls, her eyebrows growing darker and bushier, completing changing her looks. Even Maria was going to have a hard time recognizing her. Nodding once to herself, she gave them one last look. "I'll call the room once Maria, Kyle and I are out of the way," and with that, she was gone.

Liz looked at the door for a second, almost expecting the entire Unit to burst in. Nothing happened. Sighing, she turned to look at Max. He was trying to suppress a yawn.

"They really want you to stay," Liz said, biting her lower lip, "Your doctors, they keep going on and on about how afraid they are you're going to have a relapse if we take you out."

"Come here," Max said with a small smile, guiding Liz to his chest. His heart sounded calm and strong, and Liz had a terrible feeling it had not been like that for almost a week. "I'm sorry I scared you." His hand soothingly moved on her back, nicely sidestepping the fact that he _could_ relapse.

"If the Unit is gone, maybe we should stay until they say it's okay…" she suggested, reluctantly sitting up straight.

Max shook his head. "No, we are already putting these people in danger. I know I was… I was pretty bad for a while there, but once Michael wakes up and feels up to it, we should leave. The sooner we disappear, the sooner things can go back to normal for everyone."

It wasn't funny to be torn between Max's safety, and his unstable health. She had no idea what she would have done if Max hadn't ended up at the hospital, but at the motel with them instead. Would they have voted to bring Max to medical care? Would he prefer to die free than risk capture again?

"I just want this to be over," Liz said, wiping out a stray tear running down her cheek. She was both mentally and physically exhausted, but she couldn't let her guard down just yet.

"Me too. I—" he was interrupted by the loudest growl Liz had ever heard, her eyes immediately going to Max's stomach. "I'm hungry," he ended instead, sheepishly smiling.

Two minutes later, she was down the hall hunting for food.

* * *

Anders was nervous. Not the shaky kind of nervous, exactly, but a couple of butterflies seemed to have taken up residence in his stomach. _Odd._ He hadn't been nervous since college, eons ago. Maybe it was because Max was inside that room with both his sister and his wife, and that meant that Anders was in real danger of not coming out alive. Maybe it was knowing that if talks failed, somewhere down the road this failure could cost the entire planet dearly. Maybe it was that he simply didn't know anything about Antar, and had no way to corroborate anything being said here.

Whatever it was, he had to get a grip on himself and do his job. If he was alive by the end of the day, he would take that as a bonus.

Taking a deep breath, he decided he would count to three and then cross the hall, open that door, and present his case. Max already knew what he offered, now was a matter of reaching a compromise.

_1… 2…_

A woman opened the door of Max's room. Tall, with dark curls and wearing a lab coat, it took Anders a couple of seconds to realize Isabel had just walked past him. It _had_ to be her, no other doctor had entered that room.

Puzzling over what could it possibly mean, he saw Liz open the door a minute afterwards and hurried down the corridor, following on Isabel's wake. _They are leaving?_ Intrigued now, he waited a couple of minutes to see if next would come Max. He didn't. Instead, a nurse carrying a platter came by the other direction, obviously intending to enter his _Majesty's_ room.

_Now or never. _

Rapidly stepping out of his corner, Anders smiled at the nurse and opened the door for her.

"Thank you," she said not all that enthusiastically. The last 24 hours had taken a toll on all the personnel, Anders guessed.

From his vantage point, he heard Max thanking the nurse, and her saying something about Dr. McConnell. _Of course, he must have heard Max was hungry from Shore. If he's sending Max food, they are intending on staying here some time. Where did Isabel and Liz go, then?_

His thoughts were interrupted by the nurse coming out, who didn't even glance at him. She hurried down the hall, pushing an empty cart.

Taking once more a deep breath, Anders went in, closing the door quietly behind him, wondering how much time he really had before Isabel, Liz, or some other person would interrupt him. He hated to be in the middle of negotiations with so many distractions around.

Max had his glass midway to his mouth when he saw him. All color seemed to drain from his face, followed by a rush of air as he sighed in resignation at this new event. Slowly, he put the glass down, and furtively glanced at Michael's sleeping form.

"I'm not here as your enemy," Anders said, walking slowly to the foot of the bed. Max looked at him warily. "I realize this is not the best of times to have this conversation, but I figured now was my best shot to talk to you alone."

Max visibly swallowed, and started to move the tray that was in front of him. His stomach loudly protested that.

"How about this?" Anders said, "You eat while I present our proposal."

Max's hazel eyes lost a little of the fear, replaced with cautious interest.

"What happens if we don't reach an… agreement?" Max asked, hands still on the tray.

"Well, you'll have a full stomach, for one." Max didn't smile, Ander's attempt at a joke falling flat. "I'm sure we can work something out," he said in all honesty. When Max finally looked down at his food, Anders turned to look around, fetching a chair. He felt awkward standing over Max, and a minute later, he found he _still_ felt awkward sitting below Max.

With deliberate, slow moves, Max took his fork and knife and started to cut his food.

_Wonderful, now he's armed,_ a voice at the back of his head said. The fish and boiled vegetables smelled pretty good for hospital food, and he realized that the last thing he'd had in his stomach was a gallon of black coffee some twelve hours ago.

"Although we realize there's no way to verify your claims for sure, or to establish communication with your home world, we are recognizing your authority as an Antarian representative, and we wish to extend you an offer of truce, maybe even an alliance."

_Or as Harrington would phrase it, _Anders fleetingly thought,_ "you are who we say you are, and be grateful for it". Thank God he's sleeping this entire thing off…_

Max nodded once, taking his first bite. Anders took that as a sign to proceed, his mind filling with all kinds of formal protocols and elaborate words.

"You already know we sincerely apologize for everything that has happened since the crash to you and your family, Max. No amount of talking can make it right, I know, but at least we acknowledge our ample fault in these events. Ignorance regarding your intentions is hardly an excuse, but I think it's fair to say both sides have failed in any attempt at communication, resulting in a vicious circle of attacks and blame. Our shared history of violence has helped no one."

Max put his knife down, and took his glass. He drank two long sips before setting it down, his eyes thoughtful for a moment.

"I hardly know what happened," Max said quietly, looking at Anders with a mix of fear and interest in his eyes. "I mean, I wasn't even born when the ship crashed. I don't know why it crashed, or how exactly we escaped. I know our protectors—the shapeshifters—killed people, random people from what I've gathered, but I have no context for these events. I think… I _know_ I owe you an apology as well for those lives. They were killed in order to protect me. That much I know."

Anders sighed inwardly in relief. If common sense could prevail, not all was lost.

"Thank you," Anders said, the butterflies in his stomach finally taking a rest. "We seem to have a fifty-year history on our shoulders. You crashed, we found you, and in the midst of fear and survival, bad things happened. As you said, let's find a context here: We had every reason to believe you were a threat to us. And we acted accordingly."

Max kept cutting his fish and vegetables with the same focus, looking at his food instead of Anders. It was clear he was listening.

"And decades later," Anders continued, "you came along. You healed your wife in a diner in the alien capital of the world. And the Unit was all over the place."

"I came along, yes, but I was ignorant of what was going on. You knew more about me at that point than I did myself. When the Unit captured me—" Max stopped, his hands tightening around his fork and knife, looking at Anders. "It wouldn't have mattered then. All Pierce wanted was his version of the truth. The fact that I didn't know a thing didn't stop him from trying to rip it out of my soul. Do you think Pierce would approve of our negotiations?"

Anders didn't even blink. "No, that's why he's dead."

There was no record beyond Pierce's disappearance, no body was ever found, but it had been assumed pretty quickly into the investigation that Pierce, like so many other Unit heads, had died at the hands of an alien. And Max had every reason to want him dead, as well.

Max nodded once, and resumed cutting his food into tiny little pieces, listening once more.

"The Unit was officially disbanded," Anders continued, "but it never truly ceased to exist. When that base blew up, it was all the incentive the former agents needed to rebuild it."

"I didn't order that base to be blown up… I would have stopped it, had I known," Max said with something that sounded like guilt. "But they would have killed us, wouldn't they? They had just shot down one of my ships, had almost taken the injured pilot. I would have done _anything_ in the world to protect her from people like Pierce."

A tense silence followed for a couple of seconds. Max returned to his food, forking the pieces he had just finished cutting, and started to eat.

"Harrington came to the Unit about three months after that. He's highly skilled at what he does, but he also has an eye for politics. He's the one who argued you shouldn't be killed for the sake of eliminating a threat. He knows the value of information."

"Harrington wants to drag us into his base, lock us up, and throw away the key."

"He wants what Washington wants, and that's to keep you safe."

"Washington wants to keep itself safe. If Khivar comes out of the blue and demands they hand me over or else, I'll be in a ship to my homeworld before an hour has passed."

Anders had to agree reluctantly. "What _are_ the odds of that happening?" he asked in a low voice, afraid of the answer.

"He's tried it before, to bait us into going home. And yet here we remain."

"He's not capable of coming for you and taking you by force." It wasn't a question.

"Not exactly. He's capable of sending small units, agents if you'd like. But a full scale invasion— Earth is not worth it."

A weight came off Anders's shoulders that he hadn't been aware he'd been carrying all along. They could still do a lot of localized damage, but at least the planet was safe as a whole.

"I've been thinking about what you said," Max said in a serious tone, placing both the fork and knife over his plate. "What exactly does refugee mean? In this context."

"Well, you'll be given safety, health care, a place to live."

"Freedom?"

"We'll probably like to keep an eye on you all," Anders started, "but it doesn't mean—"

"If you lock us up we'll just keep trying to escape. At every opportunity, every day. This is not an arrangement we can agree to, Lieutenant Colonel Anders."

"We _can't_ let you disappear either, Max."

Max looked at him with a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes.

_And this is what we call an impasse. _For the briefest of moments he wondered if Max was telepathically calling Isabel or Liz or someone else. Not knowing what Max could do was a special kind of torture.

"What's going to happen?" Max asked slowly. "Once this is over—? I mean, no matter what we decide, what happens to everyone involved?"

That was easy. Anders had a long, _long_ list of all the things that needed to be done.

"A lot of debriefing, for starters. I'm not sure how much you remember of the past week, but you gave us pieces of information we are trying to corroborate. That town in Arizona. The mountain in Pohlman Ranch where you were hidden. There's your parents, the ex-sheriff, people who can give us valuable insight to back up your claims."

"The doctors? These doctors, I mean, the ones who've been helping me?"

"Debriefed as well. All the records taken, of course."

"Nothing that would hurt them, right? They were caught in the middle of this without any idea what they were getting into," Max said, his food forgotten.

"If they cooperate, life should go back to normal soon enough," Anders allowed. He didn't elaborate on what would happen if they _didn't_ cooperate. Fortunately, it didn't cross Max's mind to follow up with that question.

There was a pause, where Max's eyes got vulnerable as he prepared for his next move.

"I don't think you understand what you represent," Max said sincerely. "All I've ever feared is men like you, snatching me out of my life, locking me up in some brightly lit room from which there is no escape. And you are asking me to go with you, and take my family with me as well. How can I say yes?"

Anders looked Max in the eye.

"You are asking me to let go a potential invader with detailed information about our planet, our way of life, our culture. The only potential lead to understand our future enemy."

Max looked away first, thoughtful. He methodically forked a piece of vegetable, one of fish, and another vegetable, and with a grace that belied how weak he'd been not even 6 hours ago, he ate it. It occurred to Anders that he was getting hungry as well.

Finally, Max took a breath and regarded him in silence for a couple of seconds. "Then we should at least agree that Earth has no chance against Antar," Max said, those honey eyes of his looking anything but warm.

Anders swallowed. Hard.

"Let's say I _am_ a scout. That I could give you intel about how quick our starships can cross the galaxy, or how our five-world alliance could easily supply us to invade a planet the size of Earth. All I'd be doing is spelling out the details of how fast you'll have to surrender. You cannot win against us. On the other hand, if you believe I am who I say I am, then I'm the only thing that stands between this world and a potential invasion. And believe me, Lieutenant Colonel, if you take me prisoner, I'll take it as an act of war."

Gone was any vulnerability. Here was a good negotiator if ever he'd seen one.

"You can't _blackmail_ the US government, much less with nothing but 'what ifs'," Anders pointed out, his eyebrows somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline.

"What makes you think that, given the right circumstances, I won't follow through? That next week, or next month, Antar won't claim its king? You can't afford to have me as an enemy, Anders. You just can't."

They both stared at each other. Anders had been so sure there was no way on Earth Max Evans was going to walk away. Sure that an agreement would be reached, that this kid from Nowhere, New Mexico, would gladly accept an offer to stop running. Now… Now he wasn't so sure.

"Then as an ally, we can't risk your safety, either. At the very least, you'll need a safe environment. We cannot allow you to get hurt."

There was a hint of a spark in Max's eyes, a subtle sign of triumph that he'd made Anders step back. At least he didn't look smug about it.

"We have a saying on Antar: 'don't chase that which is not running.'"

"I'm not exactly following you."

"I don't want to keep running any more than you want to chase me. So how about an intermediary? Someone we both trust, who would keep an eye on us, while he keeps you out of our lives."

"A liaison?" Anders asked, puzzled.

"We would settle somewhere, free. And you would have a way to contact us, keep tabs on us in a way."

"Who?"

"Shore. You trusted him with my life, now I'll do the same."

"Max—"

"You said it yourself. You have a lot of work to do, with the information I gave you. Ways to corroborate that what I said is true. About Antar, about our ignorance, about our wish to have a life."

"There's no guarantee you won't just flee the minute you're out of this hospital."

"It's a risk worth taking."

In the years to come, Anders would always remember that exact moment—when he'd looked Max Evans in the eye and had been placed in an impossible situation. The details of that whole week would get blurry, but not those words, not the way his butterflies returned, or how much he wished he knew what the right answer was. Because Max Evans was right, they couldn't afford to have him as an enemy.


	27. Epilogue

**Epilogue  
**

* * *

Dust particles lazily danced in the light that entered at the edges of the heavy drapes. It was so quiet that there was not even the slightest noise to disturb the five people sleeping in the penthouse. From his vantage point by the window in the wide living room, Max smiled. It reminded him of that Las Vegas hotel room so long ago, and the circumstances that had brought them here were as bewildering as the need to blow 50 grand had been back in the day.

He stifled a yawn. He'd slept far more in the past week than he'd done in an entire month, and he felt more than ready to stay awake for at least a couple of days. Besides, he had a long list of questions to answer, the folded sheet of white paper on the table waiting for him to write down all his secrets. He contemplated it with a thoughtful look.

It had worked. It had taken a couple of hours to iron out the details of their deal, and a couple more for Max and his merry band to disappear, not before promising to answer Anders's hastily handwritten questions, of course. In the end, Max _had_ fled the area the minute he'd been let out of the hospital, and not just to see if Anders would keep the Unit at bay as he watched them go. With Harrington waking up any minute and Washington in a corner with its watchful and shadowed eyes, the probability that all would go to hell regardless of Anders's words was quite high.

Max took a deep breath. As far as he could tell, Anders had kept his word and had not ordered them followed, a point that gave Max some hope that this negotiator would keep his side of the bargain. The taste of a semi-free life was sweet. The idea that someday the Unit would be at his doorstep not with guns but with some sort of treaty was but wishful thinking at this moment, but still… Time would tell.

A knock came from the door. "Room service!"

His stomach answered with embarrassing clarity, and for one second he thought Liz would come out of their room to hunt down the sound. She was so worried that only sheer exhaustion was keeping her asleep. God, he loved her.

When ten seconds later no one woke up, and his guilt for putting her through the past five days abated, he walked to the door. His balance was a bit off, and his legs didn't feel exactly solid, but he managed to open it just before the bellboy knocked again.

The smell from the cart was mouthwatering. His stomach growled some more.

"Just in time, huh?" the young man said, good-natured, stepping into the room. Right behind him, Max saw his unlikely benefactor was coming in.

"You're awake!" Dr. Hayden said, wearing a t-shirt that shouted to the world _Geek at heart,_ his green eyes alive with unstoppable energy. Hayden hadn't slept in two days, and he still looked ready to take on the world. Max longed for that energy.

"Ah… I just couldn't stay in bed any more…" Max said, almost hearing Isabel, Michael and Liz yelling at him to go back to rest. Thank God they were all asleep.

Entering the room, Hayden tipped the bellboy, the door closing quietly. The doctor placed his backpack on a sofa, while Max went scouting the wonderful food the pediatrician had ordered half an hour ago. Everyone had been too tired to wait for it, though, so now there was enough to feed half a dozen people and only two lonely, _hungry_ figures ready to rise to the occasion.

"I hope everything's okay with the place?" Hayden asked, joining him in front of their small buffet.

Max nodded, looking at the closed doors, thinking how badly they all had needed a place to feel safe. "We couldn't have asked for anything better."

"Mom got it from her second husband. The third paid Med School. She sure knows how to pick –'em," Hayden said with a chuckle, going for a cup of coffee

Picking a fork, Max's eyes swept over the sandwiches, the croissants, the scrambled eggs and went right for—

"You're not eating that bacon!" Hayden said with all the parental authority in the world, the coffee forgotten in midair. Max's stomach protested loudly at the intrusion. "You haven't eaten more than one solid meal in six days. Here, let's start with something easy. Don't look at me like that, you have a lifetime ahead of you to have greasy, spicy food. A couple of days of a bland diet are not gonna kill you."

_How come I went from World Leader to a forced bland diet? _

"It really wouldn't kill you, right?" Hayden asked, for a moment looking nervous. It had been so long since Max had shared this secret with anyone, that it was weird to be back to the 100 questions and the staring. _Especially_ the staring.

"I don't think so," he answered a second later, settling for toast and honey. Breakfast had been what he'd been going out to buy with Michael almost a week ago when the Unit captured him. That he could be here eating in companionable silence with a relative stranger who knew his secret—_and_ was housing him—was nothing short of a miracle. In fact, as he started eating, the whole thing tasted like victory.

"What did you tell them, that they would let you go?"

"That I would take over the planet if they didn't."

The silence that followed made him looked up, toast barely getting to his mouth. Hayden had gone pale.

"Could you?" he whispered.

"Probably…"

"_Would_ you?"

The question hung in the air as Max chew on his toast thoughtfully, his eyes going to the forbidden bacon. Hayden looked paler.

"Not really," Max said, smiling sheepishly.

"That's a relief," Hayden said, smiling nervously. It really had been a long time since a new person knew about the whole thing. The fear was always the worst part of it.

"Thank you, you know…" Max said, "If anyone at that hospital had turned me in…"

"Hey, you deflected a bullet that was coming my way. And—Oh crap! I almost forgot!" Hayden got up in a hurry, going for his backpack. Max took the opportunity to grab the tabasco sauce. What was the point of tasting victory if he couldn't do it properly?

Two minutes later, Hayden returned with a thick manila folder. "Here, this is a summary of everything we gathered in Phoenix, after your miracle healing spree," he said, taking sheets and photographs out, this time smiling genuinely. "This is Charlie, he's eleven years old, and quite the athlete," he started, a picture of a kid in baseball uniform smiling for the camera. "He only had a couple of months to live when you healed him."

Max took the photograph, remembering Charlie had been the last kid he'd healed. He'd connected with him, seen flashes of his short life before collapsing.

"The parents… they didn't believe we didn't know what had happened at first. And Charlie's mom, she's this incredibly reserved person, totally stoic and never letting her son see her cry… Well, she came to me about a month later and gave me this," Hayden said, showing Max the picture. "And she said, 'you may or may not know what happened here, and who did it. But if you happen to cross this man's path, I hope you will give it to him.' She's given me a new one each year for the past three years, and I kept them around, always wondering where you were."

Max stared at a smiling kid, trying to picture his mother and the answers she would never get.

"It's interesting, you know?" Hayden said quietly, "How it all came full circle?"

Max smiled self-consciously. If these kids developed powers, how _interesting_ would they be?

"Are they okay?" Max asked, the photograph feeling heavier in his hands. He'd touched those lives for just a moment, without a plan before or after the fact. It had almost cost his life, and Michael's life as well. It was strange to think that night in Phoenix had been the foundation of the bridge that would get him out of Saint Paul's Hospital today. That his healing there would incline the balance in his favor here, not to mention bringing Hayden to their aid.

"They are a tight bunch. They live in different places, but the parents keep in touch. I see them for regular check-ups, and I gotta admit, they are some of the healthiest kids I've ever seen."

Max nodded, giving the photograph back. Hayden raised his hand. "That's yours. Besides, I will probably never see you after this week but this will remind you that good things do happen to good people. And good deeds do go unpunished."

That reminded him, "Did you talk to them? To McConnell and the others?"

Hayden nodded with an enthusiastic smile. "Cramer and McConnell were still in surgery, and Holt was having one hell of a time with Harrington waking up to find you gone, and his Unit without any purpose anymore. _But,_ Anders is keeping his word. They are taking all the records quietly, and Lake said she's expected for debriefing tonight, but he's been nothing but polite to all four of them. You know, I think I should use 'taking over the planet' next time I'm negotiating stuff."

They both laughed, a good, heartfelt laugh that felt like a spark in his soul. He hadn't laughed the entire week, and somehow that gesture finally confirmed for him that he was free, even if the terms of his freedom were a bit sketchy right now.

Another question was cut short as one of the doors opened. With eyes barely open and dark circles under them, Kyle looked like he needed that week of sleep as much as Max had disdained it. "You 'kay?" Kyle asked, not entirely awake.

"I feel better, thank you," Max answered, feeling guilty that he was the reason why Kyle looked like that. If Kyle hadn't been able to hold on to the security image and hadn't later short circuited the compound, his escape would have never happened.

"Good," was all his answer before he closed the door. Opening it a second after, "Is that bacon?"

Five minutes later, Max was unceremoniously shoved aside on the couch as Kyle started to inhale more than his weight in bacon and eggs, Charlie's photograph falling face down on the carpeted floor.

Max reached for it and saw that there was something written on the back, something that completely went against his nature but that would define the most important moments of his life from that day on. He would think of it two years later when he sat down with Anders as an official Antarian Representative to sign a very official looking treaty. Again when he went home to Roswell a year after that for his first family Christmas as a free man. Even when he reunited with "his" doctors a couple of years later to attend Hayden and Lake's wedding.

Definitely when he sat down with the President of the United States. And more so when Shore, ten years later, unintentionally outed him to the world.

But back in that moment, all that really mattered was having breakfast. So he thoughtfully put the picture aside, glancing at it just once more.

_Don't let yourself be unknown._

* * *

The End.

* * *

I can't believe it really ended.

I'll be back tomorrow with all the wonderful thank-you's and a sneak preview of my next new fanfic, "Of Journals and Journeys", (so you'll get another alert) but know that this story wouldn't have happened without your continuous support and feedback :D

THANK YOU!

Now, can anyone recommend a good story where the world knows they are aliens? XD


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